FKLICITA. 


A  MAID 
OF  SONOBA, 

BY 

CHARLES  E.  HAAS 


NEW      YORK 


BROADWAY 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 


Copyrighted,   1905, 

IT 

CHARLES  E.  HAAS. 


All  Rights  Reserved. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

CHAPTER  I. 
"En  Mejico" ,      I 

CHAPTER  II. 
Felicita  „      8 

CHAPTER  III. 
El  Desdichado 12 

CHAPTER  IV. 
Un  Viaje 27 

CHAPTER  V. 
La  Ninita 38 

CHAPTER  VI. 
La  Madre 51 

CHAPTER  VII. 
El  Discipulo 59 

CHAPTER  VIII. 
El  Adelantada 67 

CHAPTER  IX. 
Una  Culpa   81 

CHAPTER  X. 
El  Corazon 84 

CHAPTER  XI. 
£1  Redentor 90 


iv  Contents. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  XII. 
La  Querida *. 95 

CHAPTER  XIII. 
La  Fortaleza 108 

CHAPTER  XIV. 
La  Amiga  123 

CHAPTER  XV 
El  Mcnsaje  128 

CHAPTER  XVI. 
La  Tristeza 133 

CHAPTER  XVII. 
El  Rendir 140 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 
La  Novia 145 

CHAPTER  XIX. 
La  Hacienda   151 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Felicita,  Frontispiece 

PAGE 

Hermocillo,  5 

The  old  Quadrangle,  Stanford,  70 


A  MAID  OF  SONORA. 


CHAPTER  I. 
"EN  MEJICO."* 

"It  is  the  season  when  the  light  of  dreams 
Around  the  year  in  golden  glory  lies." 

THERE  are  still  a  few  men  in  the  far-off  state 
of  Sonora  who,  on  festal  days,  stand  in  small 
groups  about  the  playing-houses  of  Hermosillo, 
lounge  listlessly  about  the  plaza,  smoke  cigar 
ettes,  exchange  experiences  and  wager  on  their 
favorite  horses.  Many  of  these  men  are  old; 
their  once  green  cloaks,  the  universal  badge  of 
the  regular  Mexican  war  veteran,  have  long 
since  faded  into  gray;  their  trousers  or  shoes, 
which  in  no  manner,  either  in  cut  or  style,  pre 
tend  to  the  vanished  glory  of  their  cloaks,  are 
much  the  worse  for  wear,  but  their  various  col 
ored  bandannas,  wound  about  their  necks  in 
jealous  pride,  and  their  sombreros,  or  hats, 

*  In  Mexico. 


2  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

resplendent  with  trimmings  of  silver  beads, 
show  no  mark  of  age.  There  are  some  few 
among  them,  very  few,  who  were  the  proud 
followers  of  Santa  Ana;  men  who  fought 
against  the  Northern  invaders  like  so  many 
demons,  but  they  are  old  now,  old  and  feeble, 
and  the  fire  has  died  out  of  their  hearts,  though 
it  still  glistens  in  their  dark,  black  eyes,  and 
often  lurks  in  a  dagger's  blade,  to  be  handed 
down  to  rising  generations  until  the  end  of 
time.  Among  them,  too,  are  men,  some  old, 
some  still  middle-aged,  who  unaided  by  gov 
ernment  troops,  time  and  time  again  have 
beaten  back  marauding  Apaches  and  Yaquis. 

Her  fortunate  neighbor  of  the  north  has 
long  since  settled  for  herself  the  momentous 
Indian  question.  There  the  red  man  as  a  hero 
has  passed  away.  King  Philip  and  Pontiac, 
Tansey,  Big  Crow  and  Natchez  have  left  no 
braves  behind  them.  The  spirit  of  their  brav 
ery  has  passed  to  the  great  beyond,  save  as  it 
lingers  through  mystical  legends  and  vague 
histories.  But  Mexico  must  have  patience. 
The  inhabitants  of  Sonora  and  Sinaloa  have  yet 
to  battle  with  the  red  man. 


To-day  the  air  is  hushed  and  still.  Scarcely 
a  breath  quivers  in  the  fervid  heat,  as  Hermo- 
cillo,  resting  in  the  heart  of  Sonora,  is  taking 
her  usual  siesta.  The  sun,  who  for  ages  has 
glanced  relentlessly  down  upon  the  long  adobes 


"En    Mejico."  ;  3 

of  tHe  Mexican  pueblo,  seems  to  renew  fiis  war 
face  and  seek  out  every  nook  and  corner  of  the 
quaint  old  town.  The  long,  white  buildings 
glare  back  in  hopeless  defiance,  but  their  in 
mates  take  no  part  in  this  vain  resistance. 
The  streets  are  motionless,  saving  where  an  oc 
casional  pepper  tree  drowsily  waves  its  feathery 
leaves  or  drops  a  brilliant  red  berry  upon  the 
smooth,  brown  carpet  beneath. 

Slowly  the  sun  sinks  in  the  west.  The  de 
serted  plaza  awakens  after  a  long  nap.  Here 
and  there  palms  begin  to  nod  and  fountains 
to  play.  Little  birds  come  out  of  their  sleeping 
places  to  twitter  and  dance  in  the  cooling  air. 
Here  and  there,  too,  a  bee  buzzes  about  the 
flower  beds  as  if  in  final  pursuit  of  a  sweet 
morsel. 

The  shadows  are  stealing  further  towards 
the  north,  and  the  cool  breeze  coming 
in  from  the  ocean  glides  more  play 
fully  among  the  trees.  The  old  town  actually 
yawns,  sleepily  rubs  her  eyes  and  lazily  awak 
ens  ere  the  day  is  done.  The  streets  arouse 
from  their  inactivity,  mantilla-draped  forms  be 
gin  to  pass  and  repass  one  another,  and  gallant 
sombreros  are  silently  touched  in  token  of 
homage. 

Hermocillo  is  once  more  awake.  Men  are 
flocking  to  the  plaza.  Outside  the  city,  cattle 
and  flocks  of  sheep  are  being  driven  onto  the 
patreros  and  placed  into  their  various  corrals 


4  fA    Maid    of    Sonora. 

of  chapparal  and  thorn  bush.  The  fondas  and 
playing-houses  are  filling  with  loungers  gath 
ered  together  partly  to  pass  a  few  social  hours, 
partly  to  boast  of  their  feats  and  powers,  all 
anxious  to  share  in  the  merrymaking  of  the 
night. 

It  is  early  evening,  and  to-day  is  the  fifteenth 
of  August.  Vega,  the  famous  old  warrior  of 
true  Mexican  type,  has  just  thrown  upon  his 
bronco  a  saddle  of  many  trappings,  put  on 
his  great  silver  spurs,  twice  the  size  of 
a  Mexican  peseto,  and  is  directing  his  course 
towards  the  town.  It  is  remarked  that  his  dress 
is  a  little  out  of  the  usual  this  evening.  Clothed 
in  all  the  splendor  of  his  time  and  rank,  he 
wears  a  new  pair  of  buckskin  trousers,  laced  at 
the  shoe  in  Spanish  fashion,  and  held  in  place  by 
a  wide,  beautifully  stitched,  silver  ornamented 
leather  belt — an  heirloom,  as  he  boasts,  of  the 
original  Garcia,  the  boon  companion  of  Cortez. 
His  green  and  yellow  silk  shirt,  made  for  him 
by  his  faithful  Dona  in  the  days  of  their  court 
ship,  declares  the  taste  of  a  Sinaloan.  The 
pride  of  his  heart  is  his  sombrero,  ornamented 
in  gold  and  silver,  which  he  wears  with  native 
grace.  His  vest  is  green,  of  a  coarse  broad 
cloth,  with  a  double  row  of  darker  braid  run 
ning  down  the  front.  Slightly  thrown  over 
his  shoulders  he  wears  this  insignia  of  his 
former  vocation — the  short  green  cloak  of  a 
Mexican  soldier. 


y    "En    Mejico."  5 

Dusty  and  perspiring,  the  brave  old  general 
of  many  a  combat,  draws  up  his  steed  before 
the  adobe  mansion  of  the  alcalde,  the  mayor 
of  Hermocillo.  He  has  ridden  eight  miles 
for  this  festal  occasion,  and  he  thanks  his 
patron  saint  that  the  journey  is  ended. 

Many  of  the  guests  have  already  arrived. 
The  air  is  filled  with  the  merry  laughter  of  the 
sefioritas,  and  the  muffled  tuning  of  guitars. 
There  is  to  be  a  ball  and  a  great  barbecue,  for 
is  not  the  wedding  of  Don  Feliz  and  Palladita, 
the  most  dearly  beloved  of  all  the  country 
round,  an  occasion  for  the  greatest  festivity? 

"Excepting  your  mercies,"  are  the  words  of 
the  general,  as  a  few  moments  later  he  sits 
talking  with  an  animated  little  group  of  ad 
mirers  on  the  broad  veranda,  "there  is  no  braver 
man  in  Mexico  than  our  Don  here.  The  Opates 
say  the  glance  of  his  eye  is  deadly,  Gondara 
has  promised  fabulous  prices  for  his  capture 
dead  or  alive.  Tonari,  the  old  rogue,  lurks 
in  his  mountain  stronghold  advising  his  Yaquis 
to  sign  no  treaty  or  truce  with  him,  declaring 
that  this  youth  of  twenty-five  is  their  angel  of 
destruction;  that  all  the  Yaquis  must  die  who 
come  within  his  presence." 

"Caramba!  It  is  well  for  you,"  replied  an 
Hidalgo,  who  had  been  attentively  listening  to 
the  old  man — "to  boast  of  our  host  on  his  wed 
ding  day.  To-morrow  may  dim  his  colors  and 
leave  him  less  a  hero,"  and  a  stealthy,  revenge- 


6  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

ful  smile  crept  over  his  dark,  melancholy  fea 
tures.  "Caramba!"  and  he  turned  from  his 
audience. 

"Sefior,"  replied  Vega,  "the  man  who  depre 
ciates  the  honor  and  the  valor  of  Sefior  Feliz 
Mendez,  draws  his  sword  on  the  Republic,  and 
injures  every  loyal-hearted  patriot,  and  I, 
Senor,  for  one,  consider  it  a  personal  affront. 
Your  words  are  those  of  a  jealous  lover,  not  of 
a  fellow-in-arms.  It  speaks  not  well  of  either 
your  loyalty  to  Mexico,  or  to  the  generous- 
heartedness  of  your  forefathers.  Be  careful, 
Sefior,  lest  you  should  have  to  answer  for  your 
rashness.  The  shadow  that  crosses  the  faces  of 
your  hearers  broods  no  good  will  towards  you," 
and  the  old  man  turned  with  impatient  disdain 
from  the  chagrined  Mexican  as  the  bridal 
couple  entered. 

After  the  good  priest's  benediction,  the  mer 
riment  proceeded,  and  the  conversation  resumed 
its  musical  hum,  as  the  soft  cadence  of  the 
Southern  tongue  mingled  with  the  sweet  har 
mony  of  the  music.  Amid  the  joyous  laughter 
and  the  festive  merriment  was  heard  the  saucy 
breaking  of  the  cascaron,  and  the  jetty  black 
hair  of  the  Mexican  damsel  soon  sparkled  with 
bright  bits  of  colored  tinsel  and  ornaments 
which  the  quaint  globes  or  shells  contained ; 
and  amid  compliments  and  laughter  the  dance 
began.  ^ 

When,  weary  with  the  dance,  all  were  called 


"En    Mejico."  7 

to  a  barbecue  without,  the  alcalde  was  seen  sud 
denly  to  turn  to  his  daughter  with  the  question, 
"Palladita,  and  why  so  pale?"  but  this  inquiry 
brought  forth  only  a  smile  from  the  lips  of  the 
maiden. 

Someone's  eyes  had  watched  the  groom  in 
cessantly  as  he  moved  among  his  guests.  Some 
one's  envy  was  aroused  to  fever  heat,  and  every 
word  of  good  will  or  praise  that  fell  to  his 
rival's  share  made  the  hatred  in  his  heart  the 
more  bitter  and  the  thirst  for  vengeance  the 
more  keen.  Someone's  jealousy  was  brooding 
and  scheming  the  ruin  of  a  fair  young  life, 
and  there  were  whisperings  that  may  have 
reached  the  ears  of  the  Dona.  "Did  you  notice 
as  he  spoke  a  word  in  the  ear  of  the  bride,  and 
did  you  see  how  pale  she  looked  as  she  shook 
her  head?  I  fear  that  Manuel  has  no  love  for 
Don  Feliz ;  let  him  beware.  It  is  the  old  story 
of  the  rejected  lover  and  his  revenge.  But 
why  should  the  Hidalgo  care?  There  are 
others  as  fair  in  Mexico  who  would  love  him." 


!A!   Maid   of   Sonora. 


CHAPTER  II. 

FELICITA.* 

"  'Tis  always  morning  somewhere,  and  above 
The   awakening   continents,    from   shore    to 

shore, 
Somewhere  the  birds  are  singing,  evermore." 

TO-MORROW  will  begin  the  Fiesta  de  Sonora 
— the  three-day  season  of  the  Mardi  Gras,  pre 
ceding  Lent — three  days  of  processions,  pa 
rades  and  balls,  a  carnival  of  roses  and  merry 
making.  Handsome  floats,  gay  knights  and 
fair  ladies,  gorgeously  attired  in  mediaeval  cos 
tumes,  will  escort  King  Carnival  to  the  Plaza 
de  Armas  to  invest  him  with  the  keys  of  the 
city,  that  he  may  order  his  heralds  to  proclaim 
a  season  of  unrestrained  joy  and  hilarity.  To 
night  there  is  to  be  a  "serenata"  and  to-morrow 
a  "Battle  of  Flowers"  on  the  Alemeda,  with 
cascarones,  confetti  and  candies.  All  Hermo- 
sillo  is  gay.  At  every  turn  may  be  heard  the 
strains  of  "La  Golondrina,"  the  national  air. 

*  The  Little  Happy  One. 


Felicita.  9 

"Hidalgos"  and  "gentes  de  pueblo"  alike 
make  merry.  It  is  a  time  for  music  and  laugh 
ter  and  for  the  sound  of  wedding  bells  to  be 
re-echoed  from  the  rocky  summit  of  El  Cerro 
de  la  Campana.* 

The  Mexican  world  is  again  awakened  to 
the  joyousness  of  a  winter  season.  The  Cas- 
tilian  roses  seem  to  cling  more  lovingly  to  the 
trellises  over  the  broad  veranda  of  their  spa 
cious  home,  the  home  of  Don  Feliz  and  Palla- 
dita.  The  fountain  dances  more  playfully  in 
their  open  courtyard.  The  sheep-bells  seem  to 
tinkle  more  sweetly  among  the  flocks  on  the 
hacienda,  and  the  love-light  in  Don  Feliz's  eyes 
shines  brighter  than  ever — a  little  soul  has 
opened  its  eyes  in  their  cradle  of  happiness.  A 
fair  young  mother  gazes  with  worshipful  bless 
ing  as  Don  Feliz  raises  a  little  wee  urchin  in 
his  arms.  "Felicita,  you  shall  be  my  'Little 
Happy  One/  indeed." 

The  good  Padre  Mendez,  the  brother  of  the 
Don,  immediately  began  to  build  up  great  hopes 
for  his  niece.  Over  the  holy  font  he  baptised 
her  "Felicita,"  the  Little  Happy  One,  meditat- 
ign  as  he  did  so,  "If  God  spare  you,  you  shall 
be  my  joy  and  the  joy  of  my  parish.  When  old 
age  overtakes  me  you  shall  be  my  comfort. 
Yes,  true,  the  bishop  says  I  may  soon  be  sent 
to  a  new  parish  in  the  north,  but  what  of  that  ? 

*  The  Mountain  of  the  Bell. 


io  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

It  will  not  be  so  very  far  away,  and  Don  Feliz 
and  Palladita  will  visit  me  and  bring  my  Fe- 
licita.  Then  when  you  grow  up,  you  will  sing 
in  my  church  sometimes,  and  minister  to  the 
care  of  my  parishioners.  You  will  help  me 
with  my  poor  Indian  charges,  and  will  teach 
them  to  be  Christians.  Then  God  will  reward 
you  and  we  shall  both  be  happy;"  and  for  a 
time  there  were  none  happier  in  Mexico  than 
the  padre,  the  mother  and  the  father  of  the 
little  one. 

Then  the  winds  of  the  north  once  more 
brought  rumors  of  Indian  invasion.  A  call 
from  the  Government  summoned  Don  Feliz 
to  arms.  He  scarcely  hesitated.  After  one 
long  embrace  he  placed  in  the  hands  of  Heaven 
and  the  good  priest  his  beloved  wife  and  daugh 
ter,  and  with  words  of  cheer  and  encourage 
ment,  left  them  with  a  sad  but  brave  heart  to 
the  safe  keeping  of  the  holy  man,  and  rushed 
into  the  field  to  meet  Pesquiero  and  Morales 
against  renegades  and  full  bloods.  What  en 
sued  is  a  bitter  history  of  Indian  and  Mexi 
can  warfare,  almost  too  cruel  to  relate  here,  yet 
an  emancipation  of  bleeding  Mexico ;  one  more 
bond  of  Union  under  whose  spell  the  Eagle  and 
the  Serpent  may  learn  greater  things  than 
strife,  feud  and  warfare. 

Days  glide  tediously  onward,  fading  into 
weeks,  and  weeks  into  months.  Meanwhile, 
the  good  "padre"  had  been  transferred  to  his 


Felicita.  I 1 

new  parish  in  the  north,  the  hacienda  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  an  overseer,  and  the 
mother  and  daughter  retired  for  greater  safety 
to  the  convent  near  Hermocillo.  Then  it  was 
that  Don  Feliz  returned  to  them  and  arranged 
for  their  welfare,  and  as  he  departed  at  the 
convent  door,  Palladita  stooped,  and  raising  the 
baby,  placed  it  in  his  arms,  and  the  tears  came 
into  both  parents'  eyes. 

"No,  I  will  not  keep  you,  Feliz;  a  soldier's 
duty  is  the  protection  of  his  country.  When 
you  come  back  to  us  the  little  one  and  I  will  be 
waiting  for  you — if  you  do  not  come  back, 
then — then  you  will  be  waiting  for  us,  and  God 
will  call  us  to  you."  Little  did  he  think  how 
precious  would  be  the  memory  of  these  mo 
ments  in  later  years. 

Led  on  by  a  brave  commander,  his  troops 
fought  with  all  the  force  of  demons.  They 
gained  a  victory  at  Arispe  and  Matopl,  were 
checked  at  Noconi,  and  after  a  fearful  struggle 
recaptured  the  important  city  of  Hermocillo, 
and  finally,  after  skirmish  upon  skirmish, 
Sonora  and  Sinaloa  were  once  more  at  peace. 

With  anxious  anticipation  and  hopes  of 
peace  and  home  and  rest,  Mendez  saddled  his 
spirited  pony  and  rode  speedily  over  the  sage 
and  cacti  grown  fields  to  the  convent,  to  his  wife 
and  child  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  many 
sorrow  laden  days. 


12  !A    Maid   of    Sonora. 


CHAPTER    III. 

EL  DESDICHADO.* 

"The  sea  of  fortune  doth  not  ever  How, 
She  draws  her  favors  to  the  lowest  ebb" 

AFTER  a  long  ride  Don  Feliz  Mendez  and  his 
companions  arrived  at  the  hacienda.  A  brief 
inspection  and  they  again  mounted  and  de 
parted. 

"Tired  of  waiting,  Jose?  We  might  as  well 
be  journeying  onward,  looking  about  the 
rancho.  They  didn't  destroy  as  much  as  might 
have  been  expected.  Oh,  we'll  soon  have  things 
looking  quite  different.  You  must  come  out 
when  the  seiiora  is  here.  Hope  we  will  have 
good  rains  this  year,  there  is  such  great  need 
of  them.  Hand  me  a  light,  will  you,  Jose? 
Thanks.  One  can  ride  easier  while  smoking. 
'Bout  two  o'clock?  I  thought  it  was  later.  I 
guess  we  will  get  to  the  convent  before  night 
fall." 

"Yes,  the  horses  will  be  able  to  find  the  way 

*The  Unfortunate  One. 


El    Desdichado.  13 

all  right,  Mendez.  The  Indians  been  meddling 
much?" 

"No,  not  much  that  I  can  see,"  replied  Men 
dez.  "I  had  everything  secured,  however. 
Everything  will  be  looking  well  by  spring. 
Things  just  appear  neglected.  But  I  wonder 
what  became  of  the  shepherds.  They  ought  to 
be  round  about  here.  However,  we  won't  look 
for  them  to-night.  I'm  confident  that  all  is 
well."  They  threw  their  horses  into  an  easy 
gallop  and  swayed  rhythmically  along,  chatting 
in  a  friendly  manner. 

At  length  they  had  crossed  the  rolling  foot 
hills,  and  passed  into  the  more  rugged  canons, 
coming,  finally,  to  a  place  where  the  road 
abruptly  forked. 

"We  are  at  the  parting  of  the  ways,  com- 
pafiero.  Here  one  follows  the  right  or  the 
wrong.  This  trail  to  the  right  leads  over  a 
steep  baranka  (cliff),  at  the  foot  of  which, 
however,  a  half-breed  named  Cabeza,  'Cabeza- 
Loca,*  they  call  him,  keeps  a  respectable  fonda.f 
The  left  leads  over  the  mesa,  also  to  the  con 
vent,  but  it  is  longer,  and  has  no  stopping 
places.  The  choice,  compaiiero,  lies  with  you." 

"I  haven't  been  in  these  hills  much,  but  let 
us  find  the  'Loco.'  He  may  have  news  of  the 
sefiora  and  the  little  one.  These  little  inns  usu 
ally  know  all  that  happens.  The  convent,  they 
say,  is  safe,  but  there  is  no  knowing  what  that 

*  Crazy-head.  t  Inn. 


14  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

robber,  Cortiorque  may,  even  now,  be  at.  He 
is  a  sneaking  coward.  He  never  shows  a 
feather  at  which  one  may  fire  a  shot." 

"Did  you  say  Cortiorque?  Manuel  Corti 
orque?  Surely,  this  is  the  man  to  whom  the 
'Loco'  owes  his  life,  and  what  is  more,  I  have 
heard  him  say  at  Ures,  that  he  had  sworn  to 
avenge  a  wrong  for  this  same  Cortiorque  in 
payment  for  it.  Some  love  affair,  no  doubt. 
He  speaks  much  over  the  red  wine,  this  half- 
breed,  but  when  sober  he's  as  sullen  as  a  dog." 

As  his  companion  spoke  the  old  lines  of 
dread  again  settled  upon  the  temples  of  Don 
Feliz.  When  Jose  ceased  the  Don  did  not 
break  the  silence.  The  atmosphere  seemed  sud 
denly  to  be  filled  with  forebodings.  The  weird- 
ness  of  it  all  oppressed  Jose,  and  he  looked  up 
into  Mendez's  drawn,  white  face  in  awed  ex 
pectancy. 

Mendez  pondered.  To  go  on  to  the  fonda, 
cognito,  might  endanger  his  life  and  that  of  his 
wife  and  child.  To  disclose  his  suspicion  might 
lead  to  serious  embarrassment.  He  must  act 
quickly.  The  hazard,  he  knew,  lies  in  the  mo 
ment's  decision. 

"It  is  much  further  than  I  thought.  How 
the  afternoon  passes!  We  must  hasten.  We 
have  yet  ten  miles  to  ride,  have  we  not?  We 
will  stop  at  the  'Loco's'  for  a  moment's  re 
spite,  and  then  ride  on  all  the  faster,  but,  Jose, 
none  must  know  us;  either  our  purpose  or  our 


El    Desdichado.  115 

way.  I  will  have  a  dispatch  for  the  governor 
when  you  return,  the  safe  delivery  of  which 
will  pay  you  well ;"  and  his  looks  meant  much. 

"Si,  Senor,  bueno,"  ("Yes,  sir,  good,")  an 
swered  Jose. 

They  had  proceeded  some  distance  when  they 
perceived  at  the  foot  of  a  declivitous  hill,  a 
well-tiled  adobe,  around  which  there  was  a 
thick  hedge  of  native  cacti,  some  six  or  eight 
feet  high.  Another  hedge  of  the  same  plant 
enclosed  a  corral  to  the  rear  of  the  house,  where 
a  peon,  a  native  of  the  working  class,  aided  by 
the  shepherd,  or  coyote  dog,  could  be  seen, 
driving  a  large  herd  of  bleating  sheep.  In 
front  of  the  house  was  a  sort  of  a  trellis-work 
frame  of  poles,  over  which  were  stretched  in 
numerable  strings  of  red  peppers  or  chilies. 
One  sees  them  throughout  Mexico.  The 
ground  immediately  surrounding  the  house  was 
swept  spotlessly  clean,  and  in  front  of  it  were 
several  bushes  of  those  hardy,  red  Mexican 
roses,  whose  leaves,  in  Senora,  are  supposed  to 
be  a  remedy  for  many  ailments. 

The  two  horsemen  fixed  their  eyes  upon  a 
man  who  stood  near  the  open  side-door.  It  was 
Cabeza.  Apparently  he  had  just  returned 
from  a  neighboring  rancho.  His  horse  still 
panted  at  the  door.  Yet  there  were  no  bags 
upon  the  horse's  neck,  nor  even  the  customary 
traveling  blanket. 

"Que  hay,  Sefiores.    Como  estamos.    What 


1 6  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

is  there  new  at  Paralto?"  And  he  bowed  po 
litely.  "My  house  is  at  your  disposal,  Seriores. 
Will  you  alight  and  enter?  The  road  is  long 
and  dusty,  and  the  good  Virgin  has  provided. 
Shall  it  be  mescal  or  wine,  caballeros?" 

A  touching  of  sombreros,  a  light  grasp  of 
the  hand,  and  they  all  entered  the  adobe  to 
gether. 

Within  were  some  half-dozen  men,  mostly 
peons  and  half-breeds,  smoking  cigarettes  and 
chatting  around  a  table  upon  which  were  a 
number  of  glasses,  evidently  just  emptied.  A 
half-filled  bottle  of  pulque  stood  beside  them. 
As  the  three  men  entered  the  others  looked  up 
carelessly,  and  each  one  spoke  a  word  of 
friendly  welcome.  The  host  passed  on  into 
another  room  to  prepare  some  refreshments 
that  were  ordered.  The  conversation  was  re 
sumed  where  it  was  broken  off. 

"Seen  the  Yaquis  around  lately.'"'  inquired 
one  young  fellow,  whom  they  addressed  as 
Diego,  and  who  had  just  entered.  "Coming 
down  the  north  trail,  looked  as  if  the  whole 
tribe  had  been  on  horseback.  Trail  overrun 
with  footprints.  I  fear  more  trouble.  When 
Loco  comes  back  we'll  ask  about  them.  I  be 
lieve  he  has  been  north,  across  the  border  re 
cently." 

At  this  inquiry,  Juan  Moran,  a  big,  surly  half- 
breed,  broke  in,  "Loco  don't  talk  much,  very 
friendly  with  the  Indians.  This  morning  I 


El    Desdichado.  I7J 

came  over  to  pass  away  the  time,  but  fie  wasn't 
much  company.  Guess  his  old  companion  has 
been  worrying  him  again.  Seen  anything  of 
Cortiorque  lately,  Diego?" 

At  this  Mendez  relit  his  cigarette,  which  in 
his  eagerness  to  listen  he  had  allowed  to  go  out, 
and  although  seemingly  lost  in  thought,  he 
grasped  every  word  of  the  conversation. 

"Saw  him  yesterday  coming  in  this  direc 
tion.  Said  he  had  some  business  with  Cabeza 
about  some  sheep.  I  dare  say  so.  Probably 
lambs.  Such  a  business  man  that  Manuel. 
Ha!  Ha!  How  are  things  up  your  way, 
Juan?  Indians  troublesome?" 

"No,  haven't  missed  much.  The  mission 
people  seem  uneasy,  though.  Indians  too  free 
with  things.  I  guess  they  are  glad  the  convent 
is  so  near  the  chapel.  They  have  some  fugi 
tives  there,  too.  Padre  Luis  seems  anxious 
about  his  charges.  By  the  way,  that  Corti 
orque  is  quite  friendly  there.  I  guess  they  trust 
him,  too.  Turned  very  devout  lately,  and  quit 
drinking.  Saw  the  Senora  Palladita  last  week. 
You  know  of  the  Dona  of  Don  Feliz?  She 
looked  rather  thin,  but  cheerful.  Expected  the 
Don  any  day,  she  said.  She  was  in  the  convent 
garden  talking  with  some  of  the  women  of  our 
rancho,  but  she  doesn't  go  beyond  the  walls 
much.  Seems  to  have  a  dread  of  something. 
Good  woman,  that,  and  very  aristocratic." 

As  Loco  was  serving  up  savory  dishes  of 


1 8  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

steaming  tomales,  enchiladas,  tortillos  and  fri- 
joles-and-carne  for  some  of  his  guests,  the  Don 
and  Jose  rose  to  go,  when  suddenly  the  door 
was  unceremoniously  thrown  open  and  three 
burly  men  burst  into  the  room,  calling  out, 
"The  mission  wants  aid,  the  padre  has  sent 
here  for  every  man  of  you." 

The  men  were  all  on  their  feet  in  an  in 
stant,  their  meal  forgotten.  Their  faces  were 
blanched  with  dread,  and  they  feared  to  ask 
questions.  Enough!  The  church  must  not  be 
endangered. 

Speedily  snatching  up  their  cloaks  and  som 
breros,  they  rushed  to  the  stables,  flung  them 
selves  into  their  saddles  and  were  soon  riding 
in  a  quick  gallop  over  the  rugged  trail  to  the 
convent,  not  knowing  what  had  happened. 
On  and  on  they  rode.  Quicker  and  quicker 
they  plied  their  spurs,  and  faster  and  faster 
raced  their  horses,  until  the  air  was  filled  with 
their  labored  panting,  and  the  muttered  curses 
and  prayers  of  the  horsemen. 

"Mother  Mary,  have  mercy.  Christus-Savior, 
Mother  of  Jesus,  mercy,  mercy,"  were  the 
prayers  of  Don  Feliz. 

Swiftly  the  miles  flew  backward,  until  the 
white  walls  of  the  convent  appeared,  flooded  in 
the  silvery  light  of  the  rising  moon.  Nearer 
and  nearer  they  pressed,  until  at  last  the  mourn 
ful  peal  of  the  bells  fell  on  their  ears  in  spite  of 
the  noise  of  the  horses'  hoofs,  Every  peal 


El    Desdichado.  19 

seemed  to  send  bitter  tidings  of  sorrow. 
Their  curses  were  turned  to  prayers  for  the  in 
mates.  "Mary,  Mary,  Mother  of  Jesus,  have 
mercy,  have  mercy." 

Mendez  had  ridden  almost  in  a  trance.  Each 
moment  seemed  hours.  Each  mile  seemed  a 
league.  Benumbed  with  fear  for  his  loved 
ones,  the  note  of  the  bell  fell  on  his  ear  like  a 
funeral  knell.  The  convent  walls  loomed  up 
before  him  like  a  great  white  spectre.  His 
every  muscle  was  tense  with  anguish. 

At  the  convent  they  leaped  from  their  horses 
and  rushed  into  the  open  door.  Everything 
within  was  in  a  state  of  confusion.  Some  sis 
ters,  gathered  about  an  object,  no  doubt  a  dy 
ing  victim  of  the  day's  tragedy,  were  weeping 
and  wringing  their  hands. 

Mendez  saw  the  bowed  head  of  Padre  Luis 
before  the  altar,  and  hastened  to  him.  "For 
the  love  of  the  Father,  Padre,  the  senorita,  the 
little  one?"  he  inquired,  almost  breathless. 

The  old  man  lifted  his  eyes  in  bitter  anguish, 
attempting  scarcely  to  look  about  him,  and  in 
a  dazed  monotone  he  murmured,  "Gone,  my 
son — may  Christ  have  mercy,"  and  his  head 
again  fell  upon  his  breast  in  insupportable  sor 
row. 

"Gone,  father,  gone?" 

"Gone,  the  Indians " 

Mendez  understood  nothing  more.  The 
very  earth  was  slipping  away.  The  tapers 


2O  [A.   Maid    of    Sonora. 

faded  one  by  one.  The  sweet  face  of  the  Vir 
gin  before  him  took  on  a  sad,  sorrowfully  pity 
ing  look,  and  then  faded  from  his  vision;  line 
by  line  the  lineaments  of  the  Crucified  Savior 
vanished,  and  his  sad,  enduring  eyes  closed  at 
last. 

"Gone,  the  Indians ."  What  a  word  of 

anguish  in  that  thought !  What  victims  of  tor 
ture!  "The  Indians!  and  the  worst  of  all  of 
them,  the  Yaquis!" 

When  again  his  surroundings  began  all  to 
come  back  to  him,  he  found  himself  upon  his 
knees  before  the  altar,  the  old  priest  bending 
over  him  in  muttered  prayer,  scarcely  a  word 
of  which  was  audible.  Only  an  occasional 
"Mercy,  mercy,"  and  the  name  of  the  Savior 
and  His  Sacred  Mother. 

While  his  strength  was  returning  to  him, 
in  a  faltering  voice,  which  was  now  and  then 
completely  drowned  by  tears,  the  dear  old  padre 
told  his  sorrowing  child,  the  sad  story  of  the 
misfortune  that  had  befallen  them. 

For  weeks  past  Cortiorque  had  been  a  fre 
quenter  of  the  neighborhood,  and  sometimes 
visited  the  convent,  bringing  provisions  and 
other  necessities.  Early  that  morning  he  had 
come,  as  usual;  this  time  reporting  some  sick 
ness  to  the  sisters  way  down  in  the  canon,  and 
giving  a  message  requesting  the  presence  of 
one  of  the  sisters  and  Padre  Luis.  That  morn 
ing  there  were  fewer  than  uswal  at  the  convent, 


El    Desdichado.  121 

several  having  gone  the  day  before  to  Ures  on 
some  weighty  religious  duty.  So  while  it 
seemed  almost  impossible  for  the  padre  to  leave, 
yet  he  could  not  think  of  denying  the  request 
of  a  dying  man,  and  then  he  had  scarcely  any 
fear  of  anything  happening  in  his  absence,  since 
everything  had  been  quiet  for  weeks,  and  there 
seemed  no  evidence  whatever  of  danger. 

Imagine  his  surprise,  at  arriving  at  his  des 
tination,  to  find  most  of  the  family  absent  on  a 
visit,  and  the  rest  in  the  best  of  health.  Im 
mediately  suspecting  intrigue,  he  started  home 
ward,  filled  with  dread  to  think  of  what  might 
happen  during  his  absence. 

At  length  his  worst  fears  were  realized.  The 
frenzied  sisters  told  of  a  band  of  Yaquis  who 
had  arrived  immediately  after  his  departure. 
With  them  were  two  men,  who  seemed  to  be 
their  leaders.  In  spite  of  resistance,  they  gained 
admission,  seized  several  of  the  women  and 
children,  and  bound  them  to  the  saddles  of  their 
ponies.  In  the  meantime,  the  Indians  appropri 
ated  whatever  took  their  fancy.  The  sisters 
heroically  endeavored  to  save  their  charges,  and 
preserve  the  sacred  property  of  the  church  and 
convent,  but  all  to  no  avail.  Some  of  them 
were  even  cruelly  injured  in  the  attempt.  Their 
masked  leader  at  first  tried  to  keep  his  band  in 
check,  but  he  soon  became  utterly  unable  to 
govern  them.  Then  ensued  great  destruction,  in 
the  midst  of  which,  all  the  men  of  the  little 


22  A    Maid    of    Sonora, 

settlement  about  the  convent,  alarmecl  t>y  tHe 
commotion,  attempted  to  come  to  the  rescue, 
but  they  were  few  in  number,  and  their  resist 
ance  was  of  little  avail.  They  could  regain 
none  of  the  captives.  The  Indians  had  mounted 
their  ponies,  and  with  wild  yells  of  triumph, 
galloped  away  over  the  hills  to  the  north,  bear 
ing  their  captives  with  them.  Since  then  the 
members  of  the  little  settlement  had  scarcely 
been  able  to  collect  their  shattered  nerves 
enough  to  administer  to  the  needs  of  the  suffer 
ers  about  them. 

As  Mendez  recovered  his  senses  prayers 
mingled  with  curses  passed  through  his  fever 
ish  brain,  but  throughout  he  kept  a  dogged  si 
lence.  As  soon  as  he  had  regained  his  strength, 
he  gathered  together  some  two  dozen  men,  all 
eager  to  go  in  pursuit.  Quickly  armed  and 
mounted,  they  sped  along  to  the  northward. 
They  rode  many  a  weary  mile,  but  saw  no 
glimpse  of  the  fugitives,  yet  here  and  there 
were  evidences  of  their  pillage  and  slaughter. 
At  length  they  came  upon  the  charred  remains 
of  a  human  being.  Hope  and  horror!  No,  it 
could  not  be !  Anguish  is  the  foster-brother  of 
sorrow.  Now,  Mendez  scarcely  dared  hope 
ever  to  see  his  dear  one  again,  yet  he  could  not 
endure  to  think  that  these  ashes  were  those  of 
Palladita.  There  was  no  time  now  to  make  a 
diagnosis  of  them.  They  must  be  on,  on  after 
the  Indians,  in  hope  of — vengeance. 


El    Desdichado.  23 

At  length,  weary  with  sorrow  and  fatigue, 
fearful  of  certain  ambushment,  his  compan 
ions  forced  the  frenzied  man  to  return  to 
the  convent,  where  he  was  received  with  heart 
felt  sympathy.  Sorrow !  sorrow !  sorrow !  was 
it  the  will  of  the  Creator?  Is  it  essential,  is 
it  necessary  to  the  great  Plan  of  the  Architect  ? 

When  all  had  departed,  he  stealthily  returned 
to  the  altar  in  the  chapel  to  pray,  but  prayers 
would  not  come.  "A  curse  upon  these  fiends," 
he  cried,  "who  have  torn  the  very  heart  from 
out  my  breast !  Curse  upon  this  desert  land  that 
has  promised  me  fruits  and  flowers  in  its  mi 
rage;  that  has  lured  me  on  by  its  flatteries,  and 
then  gave  me  to  drink  wormwood  instead  of 
wine.  Oh,  my  Palladita!  My  Felicita!  to 
think  that  perhaps  you  are  still  the  slaves  of 
these  devils!  Can  there  be  a  God  that  would 
permit  such  an  outrage  ?  Can  there  be  a  Satan 
so  vile  as  to  throw  my  loved  ones  into  the 
hands  of  such  demons?  May  the  Virgin  Mary 
have  mercy  upon  them !  May  they  be  permitted 
to  die  rather  than  fall  victims  to  these  children 
of  Beelzebub.  Jesu  Christo,  can  you  not  hear 
the  prayers  of  a  distressed  father?  Oh,  hard, 
hard  indeed,  to  ask  for  the  death  of  my  Palla 
dita;  yet  she  would  wish  it!  If  she  could  hear 
me  she  would  say,  'Feliz,  Feliz,  you  are  kind; 
it  is  because  you  love  me!"  San  Pedro  and  San 
Pablo,  have  you  not  also  suffered  ?  Can  you  not 
pity  a  bereaved  father  and  husband?  Pray  for 


24  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

me,  oh,  saints!  Pray  that  my  Palladita  might 
be  brought  back  to  me,  pure  and  chaste,  or  pray 
that  she  may  be  taken  to  the  angels  of  heaven 
rather  than  that  she  become  the  slaves  of  these 
merciless  demons.  Then  pray  that  my  Felicita 
might  perish,  too.  Perish  in  her  arms.  The 
good  Mother  of  Jesus  have  pity  on  them." 

As  Mendez  arose  he  could  see  through  an 
open  door  Padre  Luis  kneeling  in  the  vestry 
before  a  little  rude  figure  of  the  Virgin,  pray 
ing,  his  face  in  tears.  A  tear  found  its  way 
down  his  brown,  wrinkled  cheek,  and  fell  upon 
the  cross  of  the  altar-cloth  that  the  sen'ora  her 
self  had  lately  presented  to  the  good  nuns  of 
the  convent.  The  kneeling  priest  did  not  hear 
the  Don  enter;  he  did  not  notice  him  until  he 
felt  the  hand  of  Feliz  resting  upon  his  shoul 
ders,  and  a  voice  whispering  in  the  ear  of  the 
holy  man,  "It  is  the  will  of  the  saints;"  with 
out  turning,  he  recognized  the  voice  of  the  be 
reaved,  and  replied  softly,  "The  saints  are  mer 
ciful,  there  is  a  voice  from  Heaven  that  tells 
me  our  Palladita  is  in  the  embrace  of  Our  Holy 
Mother,"  and  the  two  bowed  before  the  image 
and  prayed. 

One  expedition  after  another  was  undertaken 
to  round  in  the  maurauders,  but  they  all  re 
turned  dissatisfied.  Finally  it  was  learned  that 
Palladita  and  the  child  were  no  longer  with 
them.  Then  pursuit  was  abandoned. 


El    Desdichado.  2$ 

Mendez  within  these  few  months  had  become 
an  old  man,  his  head  bowed  with  grief,  and  his 
heart  was  broken.  Surrounded  by  the  love  of 
home,  he  had  prospered  and  conquered;  over 
come  in  turn  with  sorrow  and  the  want  of 
love,  the  flourishing  young  stock  withered,  its 
leaves  fell,  its  roots  shriveled,  and  it  was  ban 
ished  to  the  realm  of  "hope  almost  gone." 

In  the  first  days  of  his  sorrow  the  Mexican 
element  of  his  nature  had  contented  itself  in  a 
bitter  longing  for  revenge,  but  there  had  come 
a  sad  tale  from  Ures  which  made  his  vengeance 
needless. 

One  evening  the  guests  of  an  old  "fonda" 
(inn)  were  astonished  at  the  arrival  of  Corti- 
orque,  whom  none  had  expected  to  see  again. 

He  was  haggard  and  worn  with  dissipation, 
and  his  dark  eyes  spoke  fiercely  of  too  much 
mescal,  yet  he  walked  up  to  the  bar  and  drank 
more,  and  way  into  the  night  he  was  still 
drinking.  Then  he  became  talkative,  even  boist 
erous.  He  told  of  how  he  had  sworn  to  avenge 
himself  on  Mendez,  and  glorified  in  the  capture 
of  the  seiiora.  Then  he  swore  bitter,  awful 
oaths  at  his  ill  luck,  which,  as  he  said,  had 
snatched  his  prize  from  him  just  as  revenge 
was  within  his  grasp.  He  told  of  how  the 
Dona  had  weakened,  and  frail  with  long  anxiety 
and  watching  and  riding,  terrified  and  grief- 
stricken,  had  died  of  a  broken  heart  in  the  first 
days  of  her  capture.  He  laughed  with  a  bitter, 


26  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

vengeful  laugh,  as  he  told  of  how  at  least  her 
grave  was  known  only  to  himself.  Later  in 
the  night  he  became  more  wild.  It  was  the  last 
raving  before  the  stupor  came  over  him.  The 
wine  and  mescal  had  overpowered  him.  He  be 
gan  to  mutter  incoherently,  finally  sank  into  a 
sleep,  and  was  carried  to  another  room  and  was 
locked  in,  for  it  was  the  innkeeper's  intention  to 
hand  him  over  to  the  authorities.  Of  this  there 
was  no  need.  He  died  in  his  delirium.  His 
case  came  before  a  Higher  Court  for  Judg 
ment. 

And  so  it  became  known  to  Don  Feliz  Men- 
dez  that  the  saints  had  heard  his  prayers,  at 
least  in  part. 


Un   Viaje.  27 


CHAPTER  IV. 

UN  VIAJE.* 

"A  good  man  was  ther  of  religion, 
And  was  a  poure  persoun  of  a  toun; 
But  riche  he  was  of  holy  thought  and  werk" 

A  STRANGE  rumor  had  come  to  the  ears  of 
Padre  Benito,  the  mission  priest  of  Magdelena. 
It  was  a  rumor  that  the  convent  of  Hermocillo 
had  been  stormed  and  that  the  Palladita  and 
the  child  had  been  kidnapped  by  the  Indians. 
Great,  indeed,  was  the  good  man's  grief  when 
he  heard  of  this,  greater  was  it  when  a  letter 
from  his  own  brother  had  confirmed  the  state 
ment.  Down  upon  his  knees  he  fell  and  prayed 
God  that  he  might  be  the  instrument  of  restor 
ing  to  the  saddened  husband  his  beloved  wife, 
to  the  grieving  father  his  daughter.  On  his 
knees  before  the  image  of  the  Virgin  he  cried 
mournfully,  "Holy  Mary,  thou  who  hast  had 
thine  own  Beloved  Son  torn  from  thine  eyes 
and  the  eyes  of  man,  know  thou  the  grief  of  a 

*A  Journey. 


28  [A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

parent,  and  by  thy  supplications  assist  us,  Oh! 
Mother  of  Jesus,  in  restoring  to  the  faithful 
Feliz  his  Palladita,  to  the  good  father  his 
child."  Long  and  fervently  he  prayed  at  the 
altar  that  day. 

Months  and  months  passed,  and  there  was 
no  news  from  the  many  sources  of  inquiry  of 
which  he  had  bethought  himself.  His  blighted 
hopes  were  reflected  not  only  by  his  own  grief, 
but  by  the  grief  of  the  parishioners  as  well, 
simple,  impressionable  people  that  they  were. 
Then  the  months  dragged  into  years  and  no 
news. 

"Why  does  not  the  reverend  father  per 
mit  us  and  we  will  tear  to  pieces  these  wolves 
of  the  desert,"  the  faithful  would  say,  but  the 
grief  of  Padre  Benito  was  not  the  kind  that 
found  comfort  in  revenge. 

"I  know  that  God  will  some  day  help  me  to 
find  them,"  he  would  answer. 

His  fallen  hopes  were  now  and  again  fanned 
by  rumors  that  were  vain.  One  day,  Don  Feliz, 
on  his  way  to  Chihuahua,  visited  his  clerical 
brother  at  the  Mission.  The  two  men  fell 
into  one  another's  arms  when  they  met,  and 
it  was  a  pitiable  sight  to  see  the  priest  and  the 
soldier  stand  with  tear-stained  faces  gazing  into 
each  other's  eyes,  each  fearful  of  approaching 
the  subject.  The  priest  was  the  first  to  speak. 
"God  will  yet  deliver  them  unto  us,  Feliz." 
A  great  lump  rose  in  the  soldier's  throat,  and 


Un   Viaje.  \  29 

He  only  shook  his  head  dolefully.  His  grief 
at  the  thought  of  his  loss  was  too  great,  and  he 
turned  away  his  head.  Two  days  after  Padre 
Benito  bade  the  Don  farewell,  with  this  re 
quest.  "Pray  to  God,  Feliz,  they  are  in  His 
keeping.  He  will  never  see  them  injured.  He 
alone  can  deliver  them  to  us." 

Late  one  autumn,  a  small  band  of  twenty 
Apache  Indians  were  seen  traveling  northward 
with  all  their  earthly  belongings.  They  were 
nearing  the  Sonora  village  of  Magdelena,  and 
were  said  to  be  on  their  way  to  join  others  of 
their  tribe  about  Ft.  Grant  in  Arizona.  Most  of 
the  men  were  attired  simply  in  overalls  and  skin 
moccasins;  their  long  black  hair  being  left  to 
fall  carelessly  over  their  bare  shoulders.  These 
men,  with  the  exception  of  two,  rode  pinto- 
mustang  ponies  and  held  their  rifles  over  their 
laps.  Seven  women  trudged  behind  them,  car 
rying  large  burdens  of  household  goods  upon 
their  backs,  held  fast,  like  the  baskets  in  which 
they  bound  their  papooses,  by  bands  that  en 
circled  brow  and  temple.  They  were  likewise 
bareheaded  and  clad  in  most  gaudy  calico. 
In  front  of  them  these  women  drove  three  very 
lean  horses,  to  which  they  had  fastened,  one  on 
each  side,  long  sycamore  poles,  held  fast  by 
straps  of  rawhide,  passing  about  the  chests 
and  over  the  shoulders  of  the  animals.  These 
beams  were  again  held  together  behind  by 
thongs  of  leather.  Upon  such  devised  sleds,  or 


30  !A   Maid   of   Sonora. 

drags,  were  piled  furs,  bedding  and  food  for 
the  horses.  Alongside  of  these  beasts  of  bur 
den  ran  the  Indian  children,  eight  in  all.  Some 
of  the  boys  carried  bows  and  arrows,  and 
amused  themselves  shooting  at  the  jack-rab 
bits  that  their  lean  coyote  dogs  scared  up  along 
the  way.  Among  these  children  there  was  one 
girl  child,  much  fairer  than  the  rest,  smaller 
of  feature,  and  but  for  the  tan  of  the  sun,  with 
complexion  like  the  daughter  of  a  Spanish 
grandee.  The  old  squaw  who  had  her  in 
charge  called  her  "Mananka,"  and  seemed  to 
favor  the  little  urchin  to  the  extent  that  she  al 
lowed  her  continually  to  crawl  upon  the  drag 
and  ride.  At  one  time,  as  the  clumsy  vehicle 
bounced  over  some  huge  rocks,  the  child  fell 
to  the  ground  and  received  such  a  bruise  that 
it  made  her  cry.  "Bah!"  called  out  the  old 
squaw,  impatiently,  in  poor  Spanish,  "get  up! 
get  up!  and  quit  thy  bawling.  Any  one  can 
tell  that  thou  art  not  one  of  us.  Thy  people 
know  not  how  to  be  brave.  They  are  cowards, 
and  thou  are  not  unlike  the  rest  of  them.  Get 
up,  or  I  will  pull  thee  up  by  thy  white  ear. 
Thou  whining  wild-kitten ;  I  have  half  a  mind 
to  leave  thee  here  to  be  devoured  by  the  coy 
otes."  But  in  spite  of  her  scolding  she  raised 
the  child,  who  choked  her  sobs,  and  gently 
placed  her  upon  the  drag  again. 

As  they  came  within  view  of  the  house  of 
the  Rancho  Paralto,  the  riders  suddenly  drew 


Un    Viaje.  f  (31 

tfieir  Horses  to  a  standstill  upon  tHe  summit  of 
a  hill.  It  was  a  picture  for  an  artist  as  they 
sat  on  their  horses,  silhouetted  against  the  set 
ting  sun,  their  heads  proudly  thrown  back,  and 
gazing  at  a  man  on  horseback  at  a  great 
distance,  who  seemed  to  be  riding  from  them  at 
breakneck  speed. 

"He  is  from  the  Rancho,  and  he  is  going 
to  inform  some  one  at  Magdelena  that  he 
has  seen  us,  no  doubt,"  spoke  up  Mescalero, 
their  leader.  "The  white  Governor  has  prom 
ised  us  safe  conduct,  and  yet  no  one  knows 
whether  they  will  not  come  to  kill  us.  Oh, 
how  I  hate  these  Mexicans,  and  their  lying 
promises!  I  hate  them  worse  than  the  poison 
ous  snake  that  strikes  at  us,  for  him  we  may 
crush  beneath  our  feet.  I  hate  them,"  These 
last  words  he  growled  beneath  a  whisper,  and 
he  threw  a  look  of  scorn  at  the  fair  child  on  the 
drag,  which  melted  slightly  as  he  looked  into 
her  innocent  eyes. 

"No,"  answered  a  companion,  "they  will 
not  dare  kill  us.  We  have  the  Governor's 
word.  It  is  here  on  this  paper,"  and  he  drew 
from  his  garment  a  letter.  "The  padre  at  Her- 
mocillo  told  me  as  much,  and  the  padre  does  not 
lie.  But  they  will  take  the  little  pale  one  from 
us.  I  did  not  tell  the  padre  of  her,  for  fear  he 
would  demand  the  child.  They  may  have 
found  it  out.  They  will  search  for  her  here. 
She  must  not  stay  at  the  camp  to-night,  and  to- 


32  !A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

morrow  she  must  be  brought  to  us  after  dark. 
She  must  not  travel  by  day,  for  they  will  watch 
us." 

With  these  words  they  all  turned  down  the 
hill  to  a  small  canon,  where  a  clump  of  syca 
more  trees  gave  them  shelter  for  the  night,  and 
a  small  brook  gave  them  water. 

Immediately  the  men  unsaddled  their  horses 
and  tethered  them  with  long  horsehair  lariat- 
tos  along  the  water's  edge,  where  the  grass 
grew  in  bunches.  The  women  rested  their  pa 
pooses,  bound  tightly  in  their  small  wicker 
frames,  against  tree  trunks,  and  immediately  set 
about  preparing  camp. 

They  had  just  completed  a  meal  of  rabbit  and 
tortillos  when  Mescalero  addressed  himself  to 
one  of  his  companions:  "Thou  wilt  take  the 
child,  the  white  papoose,  to  the  Rio  Frio,  Tinto, 
and  await  us  under  the  baranka  (cliff),  where 
Pasco  once  hid  when  he  escaped  from  Pes- 
quiera.  Your  Majela  will  go  with  him.  She 
will  take  some  blankets  and  some  flour  for  tor 
tillos.  You  will  await  us  there.  We  will  be 
there  to-morrow  night  when  the  moon  comes 
up.  You  will  allow  no  one  to  see  you.  If  you 
speed  you  will  reach  there  to-night  at  day 
break.  Be  gone,  Tinto,  for  there  will  be  peo 
ple  here  from  Magdelena  to  claim  her  soon. 
Mananka,  get  thee  gone  with  Tinto." 

But  Mananka,  small  as  she  was,  demurred. 
"I  will  not  go  with  Tinto.  He  will  make  me 


Un    Viaje.  33 

walk,  and  I  wish  to  ride  on  the  drag.  Besides, 
Pepe  lets  me  shoot  his  bow  and  arrows.  I  do 
not  want  to  go  with  Tinto,"  and  she  broke  out 
in  sobs. 

"Then  I  will  beat  thee  with  a  stick  'till  thou 
dost  go,"  threatened  the  wily  old  leader. 

But  he  did  not  beat  her.  If  she  had  been  an 
Indian  child  he  would  have  struck  her,  or 
rather  it  would  not  have  been  necessary  to  speak 
twice  to  one  of  his  own  people.  Instead,  he 
gave  the  infant  a  bright  bead  chain  that  he  him 
self  prized,  and  coaxed  her  until  she  went. 
There  was  some  peculiar  charm  about  the  little 
five-year-old  that  won  him  over  to  her,  he  knew 
not  what. 

Very  soon  the  clatter  of  horses'  hoofs  was 
heard  in  the  canon  below.  Immediately  the 
men,  who  had  been  lying  about  the  fire  playing 
at  monte,  jumped  to  their  feet  and  withdrew 
from  the  fire,  taking  their  loaded  rifles  with 
them.  The  women,  with  their  babes,  hurried 
away  and  hid.  Then  almost  out  of  hearing  a 
voice  called  out: 

"It  is  Padre  Benito.  He  would  speak  with 
Mescalero." 

"Let  the  good  padre  approach,"  came  the 
answer.  "He  shall  not  be  harmed." 

The  padre  was  held  in  high  esteem  by  the 
Indians  of  Sonora,  and  he  feared  no  danger  to 
himself. 


34  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

It  was  a  goodly  scene  as  the  zealous  priest 
stood  full  in  the  moonlight,  bareheaded  and 
robed  in  black  like  a  saint,  his  large  silver  cross 
dangling  before  him.  The  attendants  of  the 
padre  awaited  his  return  in  the  distance.  The 
wrinkled,  brown  old  chief  formed  a  striking 
spectacle  as  he  stepped  into  the  moonlight  alone, 
open-handed,  bare  to  the  waist,  save  for  a  torn 
scrape  that  was  carelessly  thrown  over  his 
shoulders,  about  which  fell  great  folds  of 
coarse  black  hair. 

"Padre  Benito  bids  you  a  fair  night,"  came 
the  salutation. 

"  And  we  bid  the  padre  welcome,"  came  the 
response. 

Then  the  priest  related  his  mission;  that  he 
had  been  informed  by  one  of  his  parishioners 
that  the  Indians  had  with  them  a  young  girl  of 
some  five  years  of  age,  answering  the  descrip 
tion  of  his  niece,  Felicita.  He  told  the  old 
Apache  with  all  the  pathetic  words  and  accent 
the  whole  story  of  her  loss  and  capture.  He  of 
fered  for  her  restoration  a  large  sum  of  money, 
and  added  that  he  himself  would  deliver  to 
those  who  would  restore  her  the  benediction  of 
his  Holy  Church  and  his  priestly  blessing. 

The  old  chief  heard  him  with  bowed  head. 
He  no  doubt  pictured  to  himself  a  large  heap 
of  shining  Mexican  dollars.  He  had  won  the 
infant  at  a  game  of  monte  with  a  Yaqui  chief. 


Un    Viaje.  35 

Would  not  this  be  a  splendid  price  for  her? 
For  one  moment  he  was  moved  at  the  offer  of 
a  benediction.  But  this  lasted  only  a  moment. 
Then  he  said  to  himself:  "No;  when  Pepe 
grows  up  to  be  a  man  he  will  be  'Capitan/ 
(chief)  of  my  people.  He  will  take  my  place. 
They  are  close  playmates,  Mananka  and  Pepe. 
She  shall  become  his  wife.  She  will  grow  to 
love  Pepe.  And  when  they  are  married  I  will 
tell  her  who  her  father  is.  He  is  a  great  Capi- 
tan  among  the  Mexicans.  He  has  great  estates. 
Then  she  shall  be  sent  to  her  father  to  plead 
for  us.  She  will  get  for  us  lands  and  cattle  and 
sheep,  a  large  reservation  in  Mexico  on  which 
we  may  dwell,  so  that  our  people  may  not  starve 
to  death  again  when  the  dry  years  come.  She 
will  do  this  all  for  her  love  for  Pepe,  who  will 
turn  Christian  for  her.  He  will  be  Capitan  of 
my  tribe.  No,  I  will  not  sell  her.  I  will  tell 
the  good  priest  a  lie." 

Then  looking  into  the  eyes  of  the  holy  man 
he  replied:  "Padre,  we  Indians  are  poor.  We 
are  so  poor  that  some  days  we  have  nothing  to 
eat.  Look  at  our  horses,  they  are  lean  and 
old.  The  good  padre  has  always  been  kind  to 
us.  We  are  hunted  down  by  the  American  be 
yond  the  border  like  coyotes  are  hunted  by  the 
cowboy.  From  the  Mexicans  we  are  often 
made  to  hide  in  the  mountains.  But  the  good 
padre  gives  us  alms  and  intercedes  for  us.  The 


36  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

poor  Apache  can  do  nothing  for  Padre  Benito, 
whom  he  loves  and  respects.  This  is  what 
makes  Mescalero  sad,  that  he  cannot  restore  to 
the  good  padre  his  brother's  child.  But  Mesca 
lero  cannot  give  him  what  he  has  not.  Padre," 
he  continued  sadly,  "there  was  such  a  child 
lately  in  Nachez'  band.  She  died  of  the  small 
pox.  They  buried  her  in  the  mountains.  Per 
haps  it  was  another.  I  know  not.  The  capitan 
will  give  Padre  Benito  this  promise;  he  will 
look  for  the  child  among  the  Indians,  if  per 
chance,  she  still  lives.  Mescalero  will  not  for 
get  the  priest's  kindness  to  himself  and  his 
people." 

With  a  sad  heart  Padre  Benito  returned  to 
his  companions. 

"The  old  rascal  has  lied  to  your  reverence," 
said  Juan  Ruiz.  "I  saw  the  child  with  mine 
own  eyes  as  I  sat  in  the  shade  under  the  bridge 
he  crossed." 

"Saw  her!"  retorted  a  companion.  "How 
dost  thou  know  her,  Juan?  Thou  hast  never 
seen  her  before  to  know  her." 

"No,  that  I  have  not,"  replied  the  positive 
Juan,  "but  the  good  padre  has  often  told  me  of 
her.  This  child  was  white.  That  I  saw;  quite 
white,  and  she  was  just  about  the  age  of  his 
Felicita.  I  am  sure  it  was  the  child.  Padre,  the 
old  chief  has  lied  to  you,  of  that  I  am  certain." 

"Nay,"  replied  the  priest,  "we  will  leave  that 


Un   Viaje.  37 

witH  the  Shepherd.  If  the  lamS  is  to  tie  found 
He  will  find  her  and  return  her  to  the  fold,"  and 
the  words  of  the  priest  silenced  them. 

A  few  weeks  later  Mananka  and  Pepe  were 
building  sand  houses  and  chasing  grasshoppers 
on  the  desert  of  Arizona. 


38  (A    Maid    of    Sonora. 


CHAPTER  V. 

LA  NINITA.* 

"Take  it  to  thy  breast,  though  thorns  its  stem 

invest, 
Gather  them  with  the  rest" 

ANYONE  at  all  acquainted  with  the  life  of 
General  Lawton  knows  with  what  brevity  and 
dispatch  he  was  accustomed  to  give  his  orders. 
He  was  not  a  man  of  many  words,  this  brave 
American  soldier. 

"To  watch  that  canon,  sir,  will  call  for  a 
score  of  men,  and  every  man  awake.  Mesca- 
lero,  they  say,  has  forgotten  how  to  sleep.  His 
medicine-man  has  given  him  some  poisonous 
potion.  We  will  have  to  furnish  him  with  an 
antidote.  He  says  he  will  not  run,  but  I  tell 
you,  boys,  he  will,  and  the  only  way  to  make  a 
man  run  is  to  run  after  him." 

As  the  captain's  words  seemed  directed  to  his 
young  sergeant,  he,  in  a  manner  waiving  his 
customary  discipline,  even  volunteered  informa- 

*The  Girl  Child. 


La    Ninita.  39 

tion.  This  so  unmilitary  an  action  had  become 
the  constant  practice  among  these  soldier  asso 
ciates  of  the  Southwest  frontier. 

"The  mesas  will  have  to  be  patrolled,  and  an 
extra  heavy  guard  placed  over  the  wagons. 
These  bucks  are  worse  than  coyotes ;  you  never 
see  them  in  the  daytime,  and  at  night  the  whole 
country  is  alive  with  them.  I've  heard  them 
bet  that  they  could  steal  your  blankets  and  fry 
your  bacon  on  your  own  camp-fire  without 
awakening  you." 

This  was  said  while  the  necessary  prepara 
tions  were  being  made  for  the  night.  The  camp 
was  still  alive  with  dark,  busy  forms  of  the 
men  as  they  arranged  things,  now  and  then 
chatting,  and  again  resuming  a  customary 
whistle.  Then  tents  were  pitched  on  the  side 
of  a  hill  that  looked  out  upon  the  broad  mesa. 
It  was  one  of  the  many  desert  fortifications 
which  were  but  a  momentary  stand  against  the 
Apache,  who  had  become  mutinous,  and  had  ne 
cessitated  a  little  longer  pursuit  than  usual. 

Mess  had  just  been  completed,  and  as  yet  the 
western  heavens  were  ruddy  with  the  sunset. 

Suddenly  a  Papago  scout  appeared  with 
news  for  the  captain. 

"Mescalero  come  steal  ponies.  Pretty  soon 
here.  By  and  bye  ponies  all  gone,  Senor,  no 
catch  'em,  no  shoot  'em  Mescalero." 

The  captain  was  never  slow  in  grasping  a 
situation. 


40  !A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

"Now,  if  there  is  a  man  among  us  who  loves 
his  flag,  and  I  guess  there  is  no  love  lost  on 
these  Indians! — See  here!  fifty  picked  men  of 
Troop  B  through  the  gap  to  the  west.  Your 
men  down  the  Arroyo,  Jackson  !  and  now,  Doy- 
lan,  take  your  boys  'long  the  western  patrero  of 
Morales  canon  until  you  come  within  hailing 
distance  of  Lee's  men.  Then  do  your  best  to 
drive  the  Indians  to  the  south." 

There  was  no  lazy  stretching  of  legs,  and 
arms,  no  grumblings.  The  Saxon  had  learned 
from  the  Apache.  A  glimpse  from  the  enemy 
meant  spontaneous  action. 

In  a  moment  all  had  been  dispatched  as  noise 
lessly  as  the  Athenians  before  Troy,  and  as 
quickly  as  the  Boers  in  South  Africa.  These 
American-Indianized  warriors  and  athletes  of 
the  sage  and  cacti  knew  the  danger  of  delay. 
They  had  not  attained  the  proficiency  of  their 
Apache  instructors,  but  they  did  credit  to  their 
schooling,  and  have  become  almost  as  subtle 
and  stealthy  as  their  red  brothers. 

The  desert  sun  had  just  passed  behind  the 
distant  hillside  yet  the  sense  of  his  terrific 
glare  still  lingered  everywhere.  The  heat  of 
the  stones  and  sand  beneath  the  soldiers'  feet 
was  almost  unbearable.  Now  and  then  light 
whiffs  of  air  caught  up  little  heaps  of  alkali 
dust  and  carried  them  in  a  slender  whirlwind 
high  into  the  sky,  then  all  settled  down  again 
as  still  as  before. 


La    Ninita.  41 

It  is  a  weary  matter  to  trudge  and  climb,  un 
til  the  great,  dark  shadows  reaching  from  hill 
top  to  hill-top  announce  the  approach  of  ever- 
welcome  night — the  only  relief  from  the  dry, 
scorching,  withering  desert  glow. 

Two  of  the  Papago  scouts  had  just  returned 
when  the  sudden  "pang,  pang"  of  musketry 
welcomed  the  dispatched  soldiers  into  the  midst 
of  Mescalero's  band.  Then  what  ensued  is 
simply  a  reiteration  of  Indian  warfare.  An  oc 
casional  exchange  of  shots,  groans  and  curses, 
with  the  ultimate  result  to  the  Americans  of 
three  mounds  that  mark  the  burial  of  three 
brave  soldiers ;  for  the  Apaches,  one  dead  war 
rior,  two  dead  squaws,  one  wounded  brave,  and 
captive  child. 

At  length  they  returned  to  camp,  and  were 
again  soon  assembled  with  the  scanty  guard 
that  had  been  left  in  charge  of  the  wagons. 

"Well,  Wilson,  what  have  you  here?"  were 
the  captain's  words,  as  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  lit 
tle  maid.  "Were  these  the  orders  I  gave  you, 
sir?  What  do  you  mean  by  bringing  us  this 
charge?" 

Before  he  ceased  speaking  a  dozen  lips  were 
opened  in  eagerness  to  tell  the  story  of  which 
the  soldiers  had  been  the  proud  witnesses,  yet 
they  were  all  silenced  by  a  wave  of  the  captain's 
hand,  and  his  easy,  "Don't  be  hasty,  boys,  let 
him  tell  his  own  tale." 


42  (A.   Maid   of    Sonora. 

And  the  sergeant  easily  defended  his  seeming 
disobedience. 

"I  took  her  in  the  name  of  humanity,  cap 
tain.  You  yourself  would  not  have  done  less. 
You  know  one  never  stops  to  think  when  such 
a  moment  comes.  It  must  be  done  and  then 
thought  of.  The  child  was  in  the  midst  of 
death,  and  I  brought  her  here  in  the  name  of 
heaven.  War's  bad  enough  for  a  man.  She 
was  clutched  in  the  arms  of  a  dying  squaw, 
and  to  save  her  from  the  trample  of  our  horses' 
feet,  some  one  had  to  rescue  her  at  once.  The 
bullets  were  heavy  and  thick.  There  was  no 
time  to  hesitate,  and  I  was  near.  I  stooped  and 
placed  her  on  the  saddle  and  started  to  ride  on 
with  the  rest.  Her  father,  who  was  hiding  in 
the  brush  near  by,  rushed  at  me  with  his  gun 
aimed  to  shoot.  I  turned  on  him  and  had 
almost  sent  a  blow,  when  a  bullet,  probably 
aimed  at  me,  pierced  his  left  side.  I  have 
brought  her  here,  yes,  a  charge,  but  I  shall  see 
she  is  cared  for.  No  Christian  could  do  less. 
There's  no  good  comes  of  warring  on  children. 
Besides,  I  do  not  believe  that  she's  Indian,  sir, 
she's  too  light.  Her  type  is  Spanish." 

As  he  finished  speaking  he  stood  the  child, 
the  wee  bit  of  an  urchin  that  she  was,  by  his 
side,  dropping  her  from  his  arms  where  he  had 
been  holding  her  since  he  had  taken  her  from 
the  saddle.  As  her  feet  touched  the  ground,  she 
still  clung  tightly  to  his  hand,  convulsively,  as 


(La    Nifiita.  43 

if  with  fear  of  his  departure,  and  looked  up  at 
him  with  wild,  beseeching  eyes.  Then,  in  an 
swer  to  her  mute  appeal,  Joel  again  took  her 
in  his  arms. 

"Well,  Joel,  we  will  care  for  her  in  some 
way,"  and  the  captain's  heart  was  also  filled 
with  sympathy,  and  he  admired  his  young 
friend  none  the  less  for  his  defence  for  a  merci 
ful  action. 

They  turned  to  go  to  camp,  when  several 
soldiers,  who  had  been  sent  to  reconnoitre, 
came  in  hastily,  bearing  with  them  a  wounded, 
bleeding  Indian,  who  kept  crying  aloud  for 
the  captured  child.  It  was  old  Mescalero  him 
self. 

"Mananka !  Mananka !  Nina  mia.  No — no, 
soy  su  padre,  Senor.  Su  padre — el  Don  vive, 
vive  en  Hermocillo."  ("Mananka!  Mananka! 
my  child.  No,  I  am  not  your  father — the  Don 
lives,  he  lives  in  Hermocillo.")  Wildly  he  ges 
ticulated,  he  waved  his  hand  frantically  to 
wards  the  southward.  "Your  father,  Manan 
ka."  The  great  dark,  deeply  furrowed  face  was 
full  of  meaning.  He  strove  again  to  speak,  but 
the  words  were  lost  within  his  brain.  His  eyes 
spoke  hopelessly.  Again  he  threw  all  his  en 
ergy  into  his  voice,  and  with  a  throb,  heartrend 
ing,  said :  "Mananka,"  and  lay  upon  the  sand 
a  vanquished  warrior.  His  soul  had  passed 
into  the  great  beyond. 

Death  did  not  give  him  time  to  tell  his  tale. 


44  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

Another  word  might  have  meant  a  world  of 
difference  to  the  child.  It  might  have  meant 
a  return  to  Mexico;  it  might  have  meant  con 
vent  walls,  perhaps,  too,  a  great  hacienda  or  a 
governor's  mansion;  but  it  might  also  have 
meant  to  her  years  and  years  of  toil  in  those 
wild  and  dismal  deserts. 

One  by  one  the  muscles  of  his  strong  face 
had  smoothed  themselves  out,  and  all  the 
strength  of  an  infinite  peace  possessed  his  dusky 
countenance. 

When  they  placed  his  blanket  over  the  silent 
features  each  heart  was  filled  with  queer  sur 
mises  as  to  the  meaning  of  his  antics.  Here 
and  there  they  chatted  in  little  groups  about  it 
all. 

"What  do  you  think  he  meant  to  say,  Wil 
son  ?  He  doubtless  was  very  anxious  about  that 
little  gal." 

"Well,  captain,  I'm  sure  I  can't  say,  but  I 
wish  he  might  have  had  time  to  finish.  At 
first  I  thought  he  might  be  her  dad  in  spite  of 
her  light  features,  but  did  you  notice  she  did 
not  want  to  go  to  him?  She  clung  to  me  as  if 
he  was  a  stranger,  and  some  way  I  don't  know 
exactly  why,  but  I  still  persist  in  believing  that 
she  isn't  an  Indian.  There  must  be  something 
in  this.  Do  you  know  anything  about  this, — 
this— Don  Feliz?" 

"Well,  no.  Yes,  perhaps — I've  been  over  the 
border  a  bit  in  my  day.  Beamer  there  was 


La    Nifiita.  45 

with  me,  he'll  remember,  too.  One  always 
hears  much  of  this  Don  down  in  Hermosillo. 
You  see  he  was  one  of  those  good-blooded 
Spanish  fellows  that  the  peons  are  always  talk 
ing  about.  If  it's  the  same  one? — Then,  too, 
you  know  he  was  a  genuine  soldier,  and  that 
adds  a  lot  to  a  man's  popularity  down  there. 
Let  me  see,  I  think  he  lost  his  family  in  the  In 
dian  wars.  Seems  as  though  they  never  quite 
knew  how  it  happened.  The  Yaquis  were 
mixed  up  with  it  some  way.  Did  you  ever 
hear  the  straight  of  that,  Beamer?" 

"Y-e-s,  I've  heard  a  good  many  yarns  of 
that  kind  down  in  Mexico,"  replied  Beamer, 
from  where  he  lay,  his  six-foot-two  stretched 
out  on  the  sand,  "but  the  one  that  hung  to 
gether  best  was  about  a  rival  of  the  Don's  stir 
ring  up  the  Yaquis  and  the  other  Indians  until 
under  his  directions  they  captured  the  family, 
taking  them  out  of  the  convent  or  some  other 
place;"  and  then  he  added,  reflectively,  "but 
you  can't  tell  how  much  of  their  stories  are 
true,  these  peons." 

"Well,"  resumed  Duncan,  "I've  heard  some 
such  story,  too,  but  anyway  they  were  never 
found,  and  this  rival  hung  himself  and  there 
was  never  any  clew  left.  Seems  as  though  this 
Don  lived  around  there  for  a  while,  and  every 
one  thought  lots  of  him,  but  he  kind  o'  couldn't 
stay,  and  after  awhile  he  disappeared.  They  tell 
all  sorts  o'  stories  about  that,  too.  Some  say 


46  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

he  went  to  Spain,  and  some  say  he  went  to  a 
place  from  whence  he  will  never  return — sui 
cided  out  of  grief  for  his  wife  and  child.  Any 
way,  no  one  has  heard  from  him  since  he  left, 
and  the  hacienda  is  deserted." 

"Did  he  have  much  property?"  asked  Joel, 
interested. 

"O,  yes,  one  of  the  wealthiest  men  of  all  that 
country  once.  Had  a  grant,  I  believe,  acres 
and  acres  of  land,  mostly  mesa,  fine  home. 
Duncan,  there,  has  seen  it,  too.  You  know, 
Dune,  and  I  had  the  gold  fever  once  and  went 
to  Mexico  to  mine  silver  as  a  remedy,  and 
drifted  into  those  parts.  You've  heard  us  talk 
about  it — fine  place  that.  Wouldn't  mind  own 
ing  it  yourself,  eh,  sergeant?" 

"Wonder  if  he  had  any  people  around 
there?"  spoke  up  the  captain.  "It  seems  as  if 
he  must  have  had — and  was  there  much  of  a 
family?" 

"Well,"  replied  Duncan,  resting  his  chin  in 
his  hand  as  he  half-reclined  with  his  elbow  on 
his  knee,  and  pausing  a  moment  in  which 
Beamer  almost  strained  himself  to  remember, 
but  could  not — "well,  I  don't  know,  but  I've 
heard  something  about  a  brother  of  his  being 
a  priest,  but  the  fact  is,  I've  never  paid  much 
attention  to  the  matter.  One  hears  so  many 
tales  in  Mexico,  you  can't  remember  all  of  them. 
Say,  Beamer,  do  you  remember  about  the 
priest?" 


La    Ninita.  y   4^ 

"No,"  responded  Beamer,  thoughtfully,  "no, 
Duncan,  can't  say  I  do.  Fact  is,  never  heard 
of  him — but  about  the  family — well,  I  reckon 
it  was  just  a  small  one.  You  see  Mendez — Men- 
dez,that  was  the  Don's  name — was  just  a  young 
man;  had  married  a  daughter  of  one  of  the 
good  old  families  down  there.  I  reckon  there 
was  just  his  wife,  and  maybe  a  child  or  two." 

"Well,  I  do  wonder  what  the  old  Indian 
wanted,"  broke  in  Wilson.  "I  believe  this  little 
one  is  one  of  the  Don's  children.  Well,  I'll 
be  blessed,  if  she  ain't  sound  asleep.  Never 
thought  of  it.  Was  so  interested  never  thought 
to  look.  What  shall  we  do  with  her,  captain? 
Poor  little  kid,  she  is  cuddled  up  here  like  a 
little  kitten.  I'll  ask  her  to-morrow  and  find 
out  what  she  knows  about  it  all." 

"Wilson,  you  make  quite  a  nurse,"  laughed 
Beamer,  teasingly.  "But  you  needn't  fear 
about  her  belonging  to  this  Don ;  that  is  one  of 
the  old  chief's  schemes  to  save  his  child.  Say, 
boys,  Joel  makes  a  fine  nurse,  doesn't  he  ?  Equal 
to  a  woman.  Have  to  get  you  an  apron  and  a 
white  cap,  Wilson." 

"You  shut  up  and  come  along  and  help  me 
fix  a  place  for  her  to  sleep.  You're  jealous  of 
me,  that  is  all ;  that  is  what  is  the  matter  with 
you." 

"That's  right,  Joel,"  put  in  the  captain. 
"Never  mind  their  taunting,  my  boy.  Just  get 
some  blankets  and  make  a  bed  here  by  the  fire. 


48  [A.    Maid    of    Sonora. 

and  to-morrow  we  will  take  her  over  to  the 
Fort  until  we  know  what  to  do  with  her.  Some 
of  the  women  folks  there  will  take  care  of  her. 
She'll  be  snug  enough  here  by  the  fire,  and  the 
guard  can  watch  her.  This  is  your  night  on, 
Wilson." 

Almost  before  he  had  ceased  speaking  the 
little  one  rested  on  a  bed  of  blankets,  and  a 
pillow  rudely  contrived  out  of  a  coat,  and  Joel 
threw  his  own  blanket  over  her  to  keep  her 
warm. 

It  seemed  a  short  time  to  the  lad  as  he  stood 
on  guard,  for  he  really  was  only  a  lad,  scarcely 
more  than  twenty.  He  watched  every  move 
ment  of  the  night,  and  many  a  time  glanced  to 
wards  the  child,  sleeping  so  quietly  in  the  tent. 
She  slept  on,  as  only  a  child  can  sleep,  closely 
guarded  by  the  tender  care  of  strangers. 

"What  shall  we  do  with  her  if  there  is  no 
one  to  claim  her?"  The  thought  came  to  him 
again  and  again,  but  he  never  deviated  from 
his  first  decision.  "I  will  keep  her.  I  believe 
it  was  meant  that  I  should  do  so,  but,  of  course, 
we  must  try  to  find  her  parents  first ;  they  have 
the  first  claim.  Yet  I  almost  hope  she  may  be 
left  to  me.  Never  did  have  a  sister  or  brother ; 
wouldn't  it  be  jolly  to  have  her  at  home.  Won 
der  if  mother  would  care;  but  then  I  would 
see  to  it  that  she  didn't  bother.  That  is  the 
very  thing,  I'll  write  about  it  as  soon  as  we  get 
to  quarters." 


La   Ninita.  ,v  49 

r~ 

Knd  so  in  his  own  mind  he  settled  the  matter 

very  quickly,  as  a  man  generally  does,  putting 
aside  the  little  details  upon  which  a  woman 
would  put  much  stress. 

He  never  once  thought  of  all  the  long,  long 
years  in  which,  to  an  extent  at  least,  she  would 
be  a  hindrance;  that  would  not  have  been  true 
to  his  loving,  impulsive  nature.  He  never 
thought  of  the  possibility  of  his  having  a  home 
some  day  in  which  she  might  not  be  needed. 
He  was  only  a  merry,  open-hearted  boy,  and 
he  was  ready  to  take  her  into  his  life  as  he 
might  have  done  a  forlorn  little  kitten,  or  a 
poor,  wounded  bird.  There  seemed  no  other 
way  to  do,  and  he  cared  for  no  other.  It  was  a 
thought  in  accordance  with  the  manner  in 
which  he  had  gone  through  the  few  years  of 
his  existence,  cheerful  and  thought  free,  with  a 
laughing  face  and  a  sunny  heart,  taking  and 
giving  happiness  everywhere,  and  doing  it  all 
as  a  matter  of  course. 

So  as  the  night  wore  on  and  the  stars  began 
to  fade  away,  and  the  sky  began  to  roll  all  rosy 
in  the  east,  he  built  castle  and  dream-towers  for 
his  new  sister,  and  planned  a  wonderland  for 
her,  now  and  then  even  catching  a  glimpse  of 
the  far  future,  when  she  would  be  a  grand  lady, 
cultured,  educated  and  beautiful. 

He  was  still  thinking  when  the  first  sunbeams 
called  the  camp  to  action,  and  the  men  began  to 
go  about  their  work. 


'5O  !A    Maid   of    Sonora. 

"Well,  Joel,  tired  of  watching  ?  better  have  a 
little  rest." 

"Oh,  no,  captain,  we've  had  a  lovely  night; 
never  heard  a  coyote." 

"What  did  you  say,  Wilson?"  asked  one  of 
the  other  guards,  coming  up,  "never  heard  a 
coyote?  Well,  I  guess  you  must  have  been 
a-dreaming.  I  heard  enough  of  them  to  wake 
the  dead." 


La    Madre.  51 


CHAPTER   VI. 

LA  MADRE.* 

"We  are  governed  by  sympathy.9* 

i 

UPON  their  return  to  Fort  Grant,  Joel  wrote 
a  letter  that  ran  as  follows  to  his  mother  in 
San  Francisco: 

"My  DEAR  MOTHER: — You  doubtless  will 
have  received  my  telegram  before  this  reaches 
you,  and  know  that  everything  is  quiet  after 
the  skirmish  we  have  just  had.  I  sent  it  as 
soon  as  possible  that  you  need  not  worry — you 
are  such  an  anxious  little  mother.  I  hope  you 
are  feeling  cheerful  and  happy.  I  am  to  be  with 
you  in  about  a  fortnight,  and  I  shall  be  at  home 
for  some  little  time  at  least,  and  if  no  trouble 
arises  to  bring  me  back,  my  stay  may  be  a  long 
one.  Won't  that  be  jolly ! 

"And  now  I  have  a  little  surprise  for  you, 
mother.  You  never  have  refused  me  anything, 
and  I  can  remember  many  and  many  a  time 

*The  Mother. 


52  (A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

when  I  was  a  little  chap  that  mother  had  many, 
many  things  to  forgive,  and  she  was  always 
dear  and  good  about  it.  Well,  it  helps  a  fellow 
when  he  has  a  mother  that  he  can  always  de 
pend  upon.  'What  is  it?'  Well,  mother,  it's  a 
girl !  You  know  when  we  had  the  last  fray  with 
the  Indians,  I  captured  a  papoose,  and,  mother, 
I  want  to  keep  her.  Yes,  I  know  you  will  say 
that  a  young  fellow  like  I  am,  and  a  soldier,  at 
that,  who  scarcely  knows  where  he  will  rest 
his  head  on  the  morrow,  hasn't  much  time  to 
care  for  such  a  charge.  That  is  what  all 
my  friends  say.  The  boys  all  laughed  at  me  at 
first,  but  they  don't  now.  Mother,  if  you  will 
take  her,  I'll  see  that  you  are  not  bothered. 
She  is  a  cunning,  wee  bit  of  an  urchin.  Mrs. 
Haverhill  is  taking  care  of  her  for  me  just 
now.  You  know  that  is  Captain  Haverhill's 
wife.  She  has  been  very  good  to  all  us  boys 
here.  But  the  baby !  No,  you  wouldn't  call  her 
much  of  a  baby.  I  guess  she  is  about  seven  or 
eight,  or  so,  but  she  is  so  tiny!  She  doesn't 
seem  to  know  a  bit  of  English,  but  she  speaks 
Spanish  so  prettily  and  knows  Apache,  too.  A 
squaw  had  her  when  we  got  her,  so  everyone 
thinks  she  must  be  Indian,  or  part  Indian,  but 
I  don't  believe  it,  mother;  she  is  very  fair,  so 
I  believe  she  is  Spanish,  or  Mexican,  at  least, 
but  we  will  talk  all  about  that  when  I  get 
home.  An  Indian  that  we  thought  to  be  her 
father  died  in  camp,  but  in  his  dying  statement 


La    Madre.  153 

he  says  her  father  was  some  Don  in  Mexico,  and 
we  took  her  to  the  dead  squaw — the  squaw  was 
accidentally  shot  in  the  skirmish — the  child  did 
not  recognize  her,  and  when  we  asked  her  in 
Spanish  if  that  was  her  mother,  she  only  burst 
into  tears  and  shook  her  head;  later  she  said 
she  did  not  know.  Well,  she  was  frightened. 
Perhaps  some  day  she  will  recollect. 

"I'm  trying  to  teach  her  English,  but  I 
haven't  much  time  just  now.  She  doesn't  seem 
a  bit  afraid  of  me,  but  will  stand  and  watch  me 
with  her  large,  dreamy,  dark  eyes  at  whatever 
I  am  doing,  and  when  I  am  finished,  she  says, 
'Sefior,  Senor/  in  such  a  soft  tone  of  voice  that 
I  pick  her  up  and  we  frolic  about  like  two  chil 
dren.  Then  we  have  a  lesson,  and  she  always 
wanders  into  talking  of  buds  and  flowers  and 
mountains,  and  then  we  forget  all  about  the  les 
son.  Sometimes  she  talks  about  the  Indians, 
when  suddenly  she  will  seem  to  be  dreaming  a 
day-dream  about  them,  but  if  I  ask  her  about 
them  she  begins  to  whimper,  and  her  little  face 
loses  its  sunshine,  so  I  stop.  Mother,  I  think 
you  will  find  a  loving  heart  in  that  desert 
nymph.  Now  please  don't  disappoint  me, 
mother;  I  know  you  will  not. 

"Affectionately,  JOEL." 

After  he  had  addressed  and  posted  the  letter 
he  felt  very  much  relieved.  The  thought  of  it 
had  bothered  him  very  much.  He  fcnew  that 


54  A.    Maid   of    Sonora. 

his  mother  would  either  take  greatly  to  tfie 
idea  or  be  very  much  displeased  with  his  boyish 
notion. 

Several  evenings  later  he  started  towards 
Captain  Haverhill's,  but  before  he  reached  the 
house,  out  flew  a  little  midget,  calling  lustily: 
"Sefior,  Senor,"  and  there  was  Mananka, 
breathless  and  smiling.  She  had  just  awakened 
from  a  nap,  and  her  glossy  black  curls  were 
falling  over  her  shoulders  in  a  topsy-turvy 
mass.  Running  up  to  him,  she  caught  the 
young  soldier  with  both  her  brown,  chubby 
hands,  and  skipped  along  at  his  side,  digging 
her  bare  toes  in  the  sand  at  each  gleeful  hop, 
until  they  reached  the  door  from  which  Mrs. 
Haverhill  was  watching  them. 

"Well,  Joel,  aren't  you  ready  to  give  her  up 
to  me  yet  ?  I  believe  she  is  the  merriest  little  elf 
I  ever  saw.  This  morning  I  was  making  some 
pastries,  and  she  kept  nosing  around  with 
those  big,  dark  eyes  wide  open,  and  the  first 
thing  I  knew  she  was  getting  a  pan  to  practice 
pie-making.  She  is  a  regular  mimic.  So  then 
she  and  I  made  a  pie.  Wouldn't  you  like  to 
see  it?  I'll  confess  it's  not  a  very  beautiful 
specimen,  but  then,  maybe,  it  will  taste  better 
than  it  looks.  And  it's  the  babe's  first  pie,  you 
know,  Joel." 

"Poor,  little,  motherless  creature,"  said  Wil 
son,  as  he  drew  her  pretty  form  up  closely  to 
him.  "She  was  so  terrified  over  there  on  the 


La    Madre.  '55 

mesa,  she  clung  to  anyone.  I  can  almost  feel 
the  convulsive  clasp  of  her  little  arms  about  my 
neck  yet.  No,  no,  Mrs.  Haverhill,  I  will  never 
give  her  up.  It  may  seem  strange  to  you,  but 
it  seems  that  she  was  given  into  my  care,  and 
I'll  just  keep  her.  I  only  hope  mother  will  love 
her,  too." 

"Oh,  I  know  she  will,"  replied  Mrs.  Haver- 
hill,  "she  can't  help  it.  I  never  saw  a  creature 
creep  into  one's  heart  more  quickly.  Why,  she 
has  only  been  in  camp  a  short  time,  and  every 
one  loves  her;  but  she  is  rather  partial  about 
her  favors.  Her  dignity  is  rather  droll.  You 
know  Mark  Rainford  ?  Well,  he  has  been  whit 
tling  her  a  doll  at  odd  times,  and  yester 
day  noon  he  came  over,  all  smiling, 
and  offered  it  to  her.  It  was  so  quaint; 
rather  an  ingenious  affair.  She  was  just  en 
chanted  with  it.  Her  eyes  fairly  sparkled  as 
she  hugged  it  up  close.  I  really  thought  she 
had  found  some  one  that  she  thought  fully  as 
much  of  as  of  you,  Joel.  Mark  was  delighted. 
He  stayed  around  about  half  an  hour  playing 
with  her  until  the  bugle  called  him  to  mess; 
at  that  he  picked  her  up,  kissed  her  and  turned 
to  go.  Well,  I  declare,  you  never  saw  such  a 
change  in  your  life.  Those  black  eyelashes 
fairly  swept  over  her  eyes,  and  she  looked  at 
him  with  such  a  look  of  disdain.  I  couldn't 
have  kept  from  laughing  if  I  hadn't  feared  a 
share  of  that  glance  myself.  She  looked  at 


56  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

the  doll  rather  mournfully,  but  resolutely 
handed  it  back  to  Mark,  and  though  he  left  it 
on  the  table,  and  hasn't  since  touched  it,  yet 
she  won't  play  with  it.  Poor  Mark,  I  really 
felt  sorry  for  him.  She  put  me  in  mind  of 
some  grown-up  children  I  have  seen  before 
now. 

"There  goes  the  bugle,  and  you  haven't  had 
any  of  that  wonderful  pie.  Come  over  after 
dinner  if  you  aren't  busy,  Joel."  And  he  hur 
ried  away,  leaving  a  merry  little  figure  at  the 
door  calling  him  a  fond  "Adios." 

One  day  the  reply  to  his  letter  came,  and  it 
read: 


"Mv  BELOVED  SON  : — All  of  us  were  so  wor 
ried  to  hear  of  the  recent  Indian  outbreak,  and 
so  your  message  and  letter  fell  like  a  balm  on  a 
mother's  wounded  heart.  What  would  she  do 
if  anything  happened  to  her  boy!  I'm  so  glad 
that  you  are  coming  home,  dear.  The  old 
house  is  lonely  without  your  good-natured 
laugh.  Louise  often  inquires  in  her  childish 
way,  'When's  Joel  coming  back?'  All  of  your 
friends  are  delighted  to  know  you  are  coming. 

"I  hope  you  haven't  been  reckless  or  thought 
less,  dear.  But  bring  the  little  one  home  with 
you.  We  will  see  what  we  can  do  for  her. 
Perhaps  mother  needs  a  little  girl  to  keep  the 
house  cheery,  now  that  you  are  gone  so  much. 


La    Madrc.  (57 

Mother  awaits  son  with  an  anxious  Heart,  so 
don't  delay,  Joel.     You  must  be  here  soon. 
"Lovingly,  MOTHER." 


"Dear  old  mother,"  thought  Joel,  "you  are  as 
good  as  gold,  never  a  cross  word.  Yet  I  know 
you  are  skeptical  and  will  await  our  corning  be 
fore  you  will  thoroughly  believe  what  I  say," 
and  Wilson  folded  up  the  letter  carefully  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket. 

Joel  went  to  Mrs.  Haverhill  at  his  earliest 
convenience,  and  together  they  made  plans  for 
his  departure,  while  Felicita — how  Mananka 
came  to  be  so  rechristened  no  one  knew — sat  as 
quiet  as  a  little  mouse  looking  into  their  faces 
with  a  wise  air  of  knowledge,  as  they  talked 
about  the  things  that  interested  them.  She  had 
learned  a  great  many  English  words,  and 
seemed  happy  to  recognize  one. 

It  was  late  when  Wilson  bade  them  all  good 
night  and  started  away.  The  rising  moon  was 
scurrying  through  the  heavens  filled  with  fleecy 
clouds.  The  air  was  sharp  and  cool  for  Ari 
zona,  save  for  the  occasional  howl  of  a  coyote  or 
the  hoot  of  a  billy-owl.  He  unthinkingly 
walked  away  down  the  road  in  the  moonlight. 
It  seemed  as  if  something  very  beautiful  had 
come  into  his  life.  And  as  he  walked  along 
two  faces  were  constantly  before  him ;  one  that 
of  a  dirty,  little,  mischievous  urchin  with  danc- 


58  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

ing  black  eyes,  enfolded  in  flowing  coal-black' 
hair,  beside  it  was  the  sweet  face  of  his 
mother,  kind  and  benevolent,  framed  in  soft 
white  purity.  They  were  the  faces  of  two  that 
he  loved. 


El    Discipulo.  ' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

EL  DISCIPULO.* 

"And  all  about  her  neck  and  shoulders  Hew 
A  flock  of  little  loves,  and  sports  and  joys, 
With  nimble  wings  of  gold  and  purple  hew." 

AFTER  a  short  stay  in  San  Francisco  our  lit 
tle  gypsy  entered  the  Sisters'  School  in  San  Ra 
fael.  The  world  had  been  opening  up  to  her 
like  a  great  wonder-book,  with  picture  pages 
of  gorgeous  scenery  and  gilded  kings  and 
queens.  So  unlike  the  Fort  and  Desert!  al 
most  too  soon  forgotten  amid  the  dazzling  rev 
elations  of  her  new  life.  The  great  city,  with 
its  Golden  Gate  Park,  where  she  could  ride  don 
keys  and  drive  goats,  fly  about  in  the  merry-go- 
round,  see  the  birds  and  animals,  hear  the  music 
and  watch  the  crowd  of  gaily  dressed  people; 
the  Cliff  House  where  the  ocean  roars,  and 
shiny,  silvery  seals  lay  about  lazily  sunning 
themselves;  the  water-front,  with  its  wonder 
ful  ships;  the  theatres  with  their  children's  mat- 

*The  Pupil. 


60  (A.    Maid    of    Sonora. 

inees,  the  Chutes  with  its  monkeys  and  wild 
beasts  and  funny  performances,  and  all  the 
city's  noise  and  cars  and  wagons  and  immense 
buildings. 

"Where  do  the  people  all  come  from,  Uncle 
Joel?"  She  would  ask  him  a  thousand  ques 
tions,  sometimes  in  English,  more  often  in  her 
Apache-Spanish,  calling  him  "Tio"  (uncle)  by 
way  of  respect;  a  custom  prevalent  among 
the  Indians  among  whom  she  had  lived. 

The  little,  kind  mother  grew  fonder  of  her 
each  day.  Groomed  and  dressed  in  all  the  ha 
biliments  of  a  Southern  lass,  she  became  an 
object  of  pride  with  her,  fondled  and  caressed 
and  kindly  cared  for. 

"She  shall  be  a  little  lady,  like  you,  Lou. 
You  shall  go  to  the  sisters'  school  together, 
and  then  to  college,  so  that  we  can  be  proud  of 
you  both,  and  then  you  will  grow  up  to  be  my 
daughters." 

And  so  it  came  about  one  day,  accompanied 
thither  by  the  mother  that  loved  them  both, 
these  two  happy  creatures,  one  our  own  Feli- 
cita,  the  other  her  playmate,  Louise  Gordan, 
the  only  daughter  of  a  rich  widower  of  Wheel 
ing,  W.Va.,  entered  upon  their  studies  at  Sacred 
Heart  Convent,  in  San  Rafael.  The  spacious 
building,  with  its  gardens  all  enclosed  by  high 
hedge  and  fence,  seemed  at  first  dark  and 
gloomy  to  the  merry  little  midget  just  emerg 
ing  from  the  midst  of  the  city's  gaiety,  but  a 


El    Discipulo.  6 1 

kindly  touch  and  word  of  the  sister  in  charge, 
a  genial  smile  from  the  old  priest  who  visited 
the  convent  to  conduct  mass,  constant  encour 
agement  from  the  mother  superior,  and  happy 
playmate  associates,  soon  gave  it  another  tone. 
The  nature  of  our  little  student  was  moulded  to 
resemble  the  cheering,  encouraging  world  about 
her,  resplendent  with  the  green  hills  smiling 
with  the  yellow  poppy,  majestically  guarded  by 
Mount  Tamalpias,  raising  his  proud  head  in 
the  west,  while  on  the  east  lay  San  Paolo  Bay 
spread  out  in  silvery  sheen,  alive  with  white- 
winged  yachts  and  swift-sailing  fishing  smacks. 

There  human  associations,  too,  that  figured 
in  her  life,  student  associations  that  brought  her 
happy  hours,  edifying  and  broadening  her  mind 
and  expanding  the  scope  of  spiritual  and  men 
tal  vision. 

Long  walks  through  the  shady  poplar  vistas 
in  the  environment  of  the  convent,  little  picnics 
to  Lichtenburg  Canon,  or  to  Inspiration  Point, 
and  now  and  then  a  climb  to  the  top  of  Tamal 
pias,  or  to  Willow  Camp  or  Tennessee  Cove  fig 
ured  in  the  many  enjoyments  of  her  stay  at 
Sacred  Heart.  They  took  her  childish,  fairy- 
spirit  back  sometimes  in  sorrow,  sometimes 
in  gladness  to  the  brown  sandy  hills  of  Sonora 
and  Arizona. 

So  these  few  years  passed  hurriedly  in  study 
and  play,  play  and  study,  almost  undisturbed 
by  the  progress  of  the  world  without.  Her 


6i  A    Maid   of    Sonora. 

school  life  was  laid  aside  for  the  city  when  Sat 
urday  morning  brought  her  to  the  dear  little 
mother,  who  always  came  to  meet  her  at  the 
door.  That  was  always  a  red-letter  day  for 
our  demure,  brown  gypsy.  Her  day  to  have 
the  trap  and  the  bob-tail,  to  drive  mother  and 
Lou  through  the  park  if  the  day  was  clear,  or 
to  attend  matinee,  if  it  was  not.  It  was  her 
day  to  see  the  young  lieutenants  at  parade,  for 
Joel  was  stationed  at  the  Presidio  in  San  Fran 
cisco  now.  After  drill  they  would  often  ride 
over  to  Fort  Point  to  see  the  great  guns  that 
faced  the  sea,  and  watch  the  artillery.  Then 
perhaps  they  would  drive  over  to  the  Presidio 
Hospital,  where  Felicita's  lithe  form  could  be 
regularly  seen  among  the  sick.  They  were  al 
ways  glad  to  see  her,  and  declared  that  she 
came  to  them  as  a  messenger  of  health 
and  freedom.  There  was  the  cemetery,  too, 
that  received  from  her  regular  visits ;  where  her 
sympathetic  heart  expressed  its  feeling  for  the 
nation's  patriotic  dead,  as  she  roamed  through 
it  with  her  beloved  Joel. 

Every  young  officer  sought  her  acquaintance, 
child  that  she  was.  Each  visit  brought  her  me 
mentoes  of  their  esteem  and  their  attention,  as 
expressed  in  innumerable  little  curios  and  gifts, 
picked  up  in  army  life.  But  while  her  every 
visit  brought  her  a  shower  of  welcome,  yet  this 
magnetic  little  soul  was  entirely  unpretentious. 

The  Presidio  had  an  inexplicable  attraction 

\ 


El    Discipulo.  63 

for  her.  It,  somehow,  reminded  her  of  Fort 
Grant,  about  which,  in  pre-civilized  days,  she 
had  often  rolled  in  the  sand  and  dust  as  she 
played  with  her  Indian  playmates.  But  the  In 
dians  were  not  there,  and  the  Indians,  she 
would  ponder,  "were  they  not  people,  after 
all?"  Again  and  again  old  soldiers  told  her 
stories  of  the  Indian  wars,  while  she  listened 
attentively,  and  she  would  think  of  her  earlier 
life  that  was  all  so  hazy  and  so  queer.  They 
would  tell  her  stories  of  the  founding  of  San 
Francisco,  of  Friars  Parlou  and  Cambon,  and 
of  the  padres  of  Mission  Dolores  across  the 
hills  to  the  south.  On  her  return  home  she 
would  recount  them,  always  leaving  the  little 
mother  wondering  how  so  small  a  head  could 
hold  all  she  knew,  then  the  old  lady,  so  proud 
of  her  charge,  never  failed  to  inform  the  lieu 
tenant  of  Felicita's  progress. 

On  one  of  these  occasions  a  slight  blush  stole 
over  the  young  man's  face.  He  stooped  over 
her,  and  taking  her  gray  head  between  his  broad 
hands,  kissed  her  lovingly,  saying  as  he  did  so, 
"Mother,  you  will  be  as  proud  of  Mananka," 
— he  was  fond  of  her  Indian  name — "as  I  am." 

Unfortunate,  proud  mother!  could  he  only 
have  known  how  deeply  this  blush,  this  act, 
touched  her  heart,  and  disturbed  the  happiness 
of  her  whose  life  from  his  infancy  had  been 
lived  wholly  for  her  son.  Had  he  known  what 


64  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

a  truth  that  story,  that  blush,  that  kiss  revealed 
to  her ! 

Upon  another  occasion  the  young  officer, 
absorbed  in  reading  the  news  of  the  day,  sat 
opposite  the  little  miss,  whose  elbows  rested 
upon  the  table,  supporting  with  her  two  tanned 
hands  a  well-proportioned  head,  whose  black, 
flowing  hair,  hanging  loosely  about  her  well- 
rounded  shoulders,  encased  in  glossy  ebony  a 
sunny,  bright,  brown  face,  from  which  two 
large,  soulful  eyes  seemed  to  peer  admiringly 
into  her  guardian's  very  heart. 

"Well,  Mananka,  are  you  dreaming  about 
the  old  woman  that  lived  in  the  shoe?"  re 
marked  the  lieutenant,  not  in  the  least  dis 
turbed. 

"No,  no,  Tio  Jose,  I  have  been  thinking 
about  you.  I  have  been  thinking  of  how  some 
day  you  would  be  a  general,  and  then  instead 
of  sending  you  soldiers  to  kill  Indians  you 
would  teach  all  my  people  how  to  live  like 
white  people,  and  I  would  be  one  to  go  and 
teach  them,  and  you  would  order  the  soldiers  to 
protect  me.  That  is  the  way  the  soldiers  and 
.the  padres  did,  Tio,  in  the  old  Spanish  days  in 
California." 

She  had  the  way  of  calling  him  "Tio  Jose," 
when  she  meant  to  tease  him. 

"Little  dreamer,"  replied  the  lieutenant,  "you 
are  not  an  Indian,"  and  he  continued  reading. 

After  a  moment  she  began  again.  "Joel,"  she 


El    Discipulo.  '65 

remarked,  "you  told  me  that  your  first  night 
at  home  you  would  hear  me  read  my  story 
about  the  Presidio,  and  now  you  must  let  me 
read  it  to  you.  It's  got  a  moral,  too." 

"Well,  then,  go  on,"  replied  the  soldier,  lay 
ing  down  his  paper. 

"Once  upon  a  time,  when  grandmother  was 

a  child Yes,  but  not  your  grandmother," 

replied  Felicita.  "It  might  have  been  mine," 
and  she  read  to  him  the  well-known  story  of 
the  founding  of  the  western  city  of  San  Fran 
cisco. 

As  her  interest  increased,  she  thoughtlessly 
drove  a  sharp  pencil  through  the  page  of  her 
theme.  "It  all  began  with  sixteen  leather- 
armed  soldiers — just  to  think.  Ah!  Joel,  I've 
spoiled  my  paper,  and  it  was  all  for  you,  you 
stupid!"  she  exclaimed,  and  our  little  enthu 
siast  resumed  her  dreaming,  while  Joel  lay 
back  in  his  chair  and  laughed  at  her,  for  he  had 
been  watching  the  performance  all  the  while. 
Then  he  straightened  up  and  asked: 

"Well,  my  little  leather-coated  Spanish 
trooper,  where's  the  moral?" 

"Oh,  the  moral,  Uncle  Joel,  the  moral  is :  if 
you  don't  be  a  great  general,  and  I  a  good  Sa 
maritan  missionary  some  day,  the  Indians  in 
Arizona  will  all  die  like  they  did  here  long, 
long  ago." 

Their  conversation  ended  here,  but  it  en 
dorsed  the  feeling  in  their  hearts;  her  admira- 


66  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

tion  for  the  rising  soldier,  his  growing  esteem 
and  affection  for  his  captive  ward,  developing 
so  rapidly  under  his  care  and  protection. 

Her  years  at  school  passed  by  like  so  many 
blossoms  in  a  bee's  flight,  that  buzzing  and 
humming  about  a  wild  rose  alights  for  a  mo 
ment  upon  the  delicate  petals  of  a  sweet  brier  in 
order  to  fill  its  tiny  proboscis  with  honey,  then 
taking  wing,  flies  quickly  to  another  and  an 
other,  until,  borne  down  with  the  sweetness  it 
has  gathered,  returns  to  the  hive  from  whence  it 
has  come,  not  to  devour  its  store,  but  to  de 
posit  its  treasure  for  the  use  and  benefit  and 
happiness  of  others.  So  with  the  maiden  and 
her  education,  only  in  her  case  the  honey-comb 
had  not  yet  been  filled.  There  were  fields  of 
flowers  yet,  fields  of  poppy  and  white  sage, 
from  which  to  gather  her  sweetness,  there  were 
yet  many,  many  empty  cells  for  this  busy  little 
bee,  cells  to  be  filled  in  her  College  life  and  in 
the  life  of  the  World  Outside. 


El   Adelantada.  67 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

EL  ADELANTADA.* 

"There  is  she  crowned  with  garlands  of  con 
tent, 
There  doth  she  manna  eat,  and  nectar  drink." 

SOME  time  after  matriculation  at  Stanford, 
Felicita  wrote  to  Mrs.  Wilson: 

"How  different  all  seems  now  to  me!  The 
great  sandstone  quadrangle,  with  its  long,  rest 
ful  arcades  built  in  the  old  Mexican  style,  an 
architecture  that  I  am  so  fond  of,  because  it  has 
something  in  common  with  Arizona,  the  spa 
cious,  cool  class-rooms,  the  Arboritum  so  invit 
ing  at  times,  the  long  drives  and  walks  about 
the  campus,  Encina  and  Roble  halls,  our  dormi 
tories,  where  the  Stanford  spirit  is  the  strong 
est,  a  spirit  that  every  Stanford  man  and 
woman  will  be  proud  of.  Oh,  mother,  you  do 
not  know  how  I  am  already  in  love  with  my 
new  alma  mater.  When  I  first  left  you  and 

*  The  Progress. 


68  !A.    Maid    of   Sonora. 

the  convent,  and  Joel  and  all,  I  felt  that  I  was 
being  exiled  from  all  that  was  near  and  dear  to 
me,  but  what  a  truant  to  my  former  feelings  I 
am !  Here  I  am  beginning  to  feel  that  the  day 
that  takes  me  from  Stanford  and  from  Roble 
will  almost  rob  me  of  my  soul.  Some  of  the 
girls  are  speaking  of  organizing  Sororities,  and 
leaving  the  hall,  but  they  cannot  feel  as  we  feel 
who  have  almost  made  Roble  a  part  of  our 
lives.  What  a  dream-life  college  life  is,  any 
way.  But  it  is  not  all  without  seriousness, 
mother,  you  may  be  sure.  You  will  believe 
me  when  I  say  that  I  have  not  studied  as  I  do 
now,  in  all  my  life.  There  is  so  much  to  learn 
when  one  has  an  ambition.  But  it  seems, 
mother,  that  I  never  had  such  an  inspiration  to 
work,  and  my  studies  are  such  a  joy  to  me  now. 
I'm  afraid  they  were  not  always  so  at  the  con 
vent.  Just  to  think  if  all  goes  well,  I  am  to  be 
graduated  as  a  'Pioneer.' 

"Just  yesterday  afternoon  Lou  and  I  took  a 
ride  on  our  wheels  to  the  Stanford  home.  We 
met  the  Senator  and  Mrs.  Stanford  out  among 
the  trees.  They  invited  us  to  take  a  cup  of  tea 
with  them,  and  we  spent  a  whole  hour  there 
chatting  of  our  hopes  and  our  plans.  They  lis 
tened  so  interestedly  that  we  chatted  like  two 
magpies.  What  a  refined  and  elegant  gentle 
man  the  Senator  is!  He  just  seems  to  know 
'worlds,'  mother,  yet  his  presence  never  em 
barrasses.  Mrs.  Stanford  reminds  me  much 


El    Adelantada.  69 

of  you,  in  her  quiet  ways,  mother.  She  seemed 
to  take  a  great  fancy  to  us,  and  invited  us  to 
come  up  and  see  her  real  often.  I  shall  never 
forget  her  kindness  and  gentle  manner." 

Long  before  she  had  entered  the  University 
the  question  had  been  "where?"  and  as  often 
the  answer  came  "to  your  own  people."  This 
voice  seemed  to  be  calling  her  constantly,  and 
she  resolved  to  adopt  such  studies,  which  when 
once  mastered  would  contribute  to  the  welfare 
of  the  Indian  people,  from  which,  in  spite  of 
the  protests  of  Joel,  she  believed  she  had 
sprung.  If  she  could  have  the  endowment  of  a 
broad,  useful  education,  the  support  of  strong 
friends,  how  much  then  could  she  do  in  educat 
ing  and  uplifting  those  poor,  godless  creatures, 
the  victims  alike  of  vice  and  disease,  and  the 
white  man's  avariciousness,  from  whose  miser 
able  lot  she  was  so  miraculously  rescued.  Be 
sides,  her  studies  would  give  her  pleasure  when 
among  them,  so  unfathomably  inferior  to  her 
self;  her  only  solace  would  be  her  knowledge. 
Cicero  had  taught  her  long  before  how  precious 
is  the  realm  of  acquired  force  and  self-reliance 
that  a  liberal  education  alone  can  give  when  he 
said,  "these  studies  feed  youth,  give  pleasure  to 
old  age,  are  an  ornament  to  us  in  prosperity, 
offer  us  a  refuge  and  a  solace  in  our  adversity, 
delight  us  at  home,  do  not  impede  us  abroad, 
are  our  companions  by  night,  travel  with  us  and 


yo  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

retire  with  us  to  the  country."  Furthermore, 
would  Joel  not  always  be  at  her  side,  in 
thought,  in  heart  ?  as  she  herself  once  told  him : 
"Brother,  you  are  always  with  me,  encourag 
ing  me  in  my  studies,  rejoicing  with  me  in  my 
victories,  both  those  over  my  lesser  self  and 
over  my  difficulties,  kindly  correcting  me  where 
I  err,  and  praising  me  when  I  accomplish  a  dif 
ficult  task." 

Every  evening  the  Freshman  "Co-ed"  could 
be  seen  treading  the  broad  walk  from  Roble  to 
the  Quadrangle,  and  through  the  long  arches, 
along  the  cool  courts,  where  the  red-tiled  roofs 
reflected  the  splendor  of  the  evening  sun.  And 
when  she  had  received  the  letter  that  she  went 
after — it  was  usually  from  mother  or  Joel, — she 
would  often  steal  with  it  to  a  seat  in  the  Ar- 
boritum,  a  place  under  a  large  oak,  near  the 
Mausoleum,  and  there  read,  undisturbed,  "in 
maiden  meditation  fancy  free;"  and  there, 
among  the  Druid  trees,  God's  kind  world 
seemed  to  speak  with  silent  tongue  words  that 
the  heart  alone  could  hear  and  understand. 

But  the  sky  was  not  always  rose  and  opal  for 
her.  There  were  times  of  forebodings  and  mis 
givings  of  the  future,  when  the  heart  was  sad; 
days  of  illness  and  overwork,  when  the  captain 
— Joel  was  a  captain  now — seemed  less  sympa 
thetic,  and  the  reason  could  not  be  fathomed; 
days  when  mother  seemed  to  be  drifting  fur 
ther  and  further  away.  Then  once  there  had 


El   Adelantada.  71 

come  tidings,  rumors  in  which  Joel's  good  name 
and  honesty  were  attacked.  She  well  knew 
that  he  was  fond  of  horses,  that  he  had  spent 
his  leisure  as  a  recreation  at  the  races  in  Oak 
land  and  Ingleside.  He  had  often  told  her, 
too,  vof  sums  that  he  had  lost  and  won.  But 
what  of  that  ?  Was  it  not  the  favorite  pastime 
of  the  young  officers  of  the  Presidio  when  not 
on  duty  to  spend  an  afternoon  at  the  races,  and 
was  he  not  a  Southern  gentleman  with  the  love 
of  horses  inborn?  Felicita  did  not  fear  for 
Joel.  She  could  not  conceive  that  he  could  ever 
allow  himself  to  be  dragged  into  disgrace,  and 
hence  she  gave  little  credence  to  the  rumors. 

But  there  were  not  many  days  like  these  in 
her  life,  for  a  heart  like  hers  could  not  long  be 
sad  and  discontented  where  there  were  friends 
and  fellow  workers  and  congenial  pursuits; 
where  so  much  mirth  and  good  fellowship 
abounded.  Nay,  these  were  only  experiences 
that  broadened  and  made  her  sympathetic,  that 
brought  her  nearer  her  fellowman  and  her  God. 

The  four  years  of  Felicita's  university  life 
passed  not  very  unlike  that  of  other  students. 
There  were  days  and  days  of  hard  work,  of  ex 
aminations  and  theses  work,  of  research  work 
and  statistical  compiling,  but  there  were  also 
many,  many  social  affairs  to  break  the  monot 
ony  of  it  all;  parties  at  Roble  and  dances 
at  the  Fraternity  houses,  "at  homes"  with 
the  professors,  and  receptions  to  the  fac- 


72  'A    Maid   of   Sonora. 

ulty,  student  excursions  into  the  beautiful  re 
cesses  of  the  Santa  Cruz  range,  trips  to  La 
Honda  and  to  Woodland,  concerts  in  the  Old 
Chapel,  football,  baseball,  tennis,  field  days, 
boating  on  Lagunita,  and  a  variety  of  other 
amusements  to  break  into  lectures  and  "dig 
ging"  and  cramming  for  examinations.  Visits 
from  mother  and  Joel  were  frequent  and  often, 
and  again  young  officers  from  the  Presidio 
came  to  spend  a  holiday  or  a  Sunday. 

On  one  particular  Thanksgiving  Day  the 
campus  was  alive  with  students  flying  the  Car 
dinal;  people  from  all  about  assembled  in  their 
gala  dresses,  gay  in  garb  and  light  of  heart. 
It  was  the  fourth  annual  intercollegiate  game 
in  San  Francisco.  Students  were  assembled  on 
the  wide  portico  in  front  of  incina  Hall  dis 
cussing  the  coming  event,  vociferously  cheering 
their  heroes,  and  in  concert  the  "rooters"  of 
the  day  raised  their  voices  in  songs  and  yells 
for  their  alma  mater,  while  they  awaited  the 
arrival  of  a  special  train  to  carry  them  to  the 
city.  When  it  arrived,  gay  in  Cardinal  bunt 
ing,^  it  shrieked,  as  it  never  did  before,  the  yell 
of  the  Stanford  men.  The  people  thronged 
into  the  car  as  the  university  band,  some  forty 
pieces,  struck  up  "Hail,  Stanford,  Hail,"  the 
Stanford  anthem.  Until  the  train  moved  away, 
Stanford  was  aglow  with  enthusiasm.  The 
clear  blue  sky,  the  warm  rays  of  the  bright  sun, 


El    Adelantada.  73 

the  confident  spirit  of  the  students  all  seemed 
propitious  omens  of  victory. 

That  morning,  Felicita,  her  crimson  ribbons 
floating  in  the  soft  breeze,  stood  with  Louise 
Gordan  patiently  awaiting  the  train  to  start  for 
San  Francisco,  where  she  could  meet  Joel  and 
mother,  when  her  meditations  were  disturbed. 

"May  I  share  this  seat  with  you,  Miss  Wil 
son?" 

It  seemed  the  very  opportunity  for  which 
David  McVeigh  had  longed  and  prayed. 

If  there  was  one  who  held  the  especial  es 
teem  of  the  young  lady  it  was  David  McVeigh. 
Thoroughly  responsive,  and  of  deep  sensibili 
ties,  she  seemed  always  to  burst  into  his  pres 
ence  with  the  air  of  "you  must  succeed."  Un 
fortunate  lad!  He  did  not  understand  the 
"why"  of  this.  The  future  had  bound  him  to 
a  narrow  past  that  had  not  yet  been  broken. 

But  Felicita  understood.  She  anticipated  his 
impulse  by  drawing  him  into  a  conversation 
concerning  their  futures. 

"And  when  I  am  far  away,"  she  remarked, 
"far  off  among  the  cacti,  the  sage  and  the  wild 
Indians  of  Arizona,  I  know  of  one  who  will 
think  of  me.  David,  we  shall  always  be 
friends,"  then,  after  a  moment's  pause,  "just 
friends,  that  is  all." 

"Friends,"  the  word  followed  him  to  the 
city,  to  the  game ;  the  glad  hurrahs  of  five  thou 
sand  or  more  could  not  drown  it  in  his  heart, 


74  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

the  songs  of  the  students  could  not  drive  it  from 
his  mind. 

All  that  afternoon  the  two  powerful  football 
teams  moved  over  the  field,  now  in  a  heavy 
floundering  manner,  now  in  a  quick,  snappy 
game  over  the  white-lined  oval,  first  one  side 
gaining  an  advantage,  then  another;  at  one 
time  with  a  victory  for  the  Blue  and  Gold,  at 
another  with  success  for  the  Cardinal.  But 
David  McVeigh  did  not  see  much  of  the  game. 
He  sat  quietly  meditating,  gazing  steadfastly  at 
the  University  section  opposite  his  own,  where 
Felicita  had  said  the  captain  had  procured  seats 
for  himself  and  for  her.  Occasionally  a  player 
with  an  injury  would  be  aided  off  the  field, 
then  an  unusual  silence  fell  over  the  mul 
titude,  but  David  McVeigh  was  little  dis 
turbed.  At  the  end  of  the  second  half 
alone  he  evinced  interest;  then  the  victorious 
Cardinal  was  everywhere  in  evidence.  Great 
signs  bearing  the  figures  6-0  were  raised  over 
the  heads  of  the  surging  multitude  of  Stan 
ford  students  and  sympathizers,  who  formed 
themselves  into  one  compact  mass  about  their 
successful  team.  Men  were  jumping  over  the 
bleachers,  casting  their  caps  in  the  air,  and  ut 
tering  earsplitting  yells;  hats,  canes  went  up, 
horns  blew,  blew  into  space  so  the  noise  com 
pletely  drowned  the  strains  of  the  college  bands. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  crowd  had  organized  itself 
into  a  procession,  still  yelling  and  jostling  in  a 


El    Adelantada.  75 

most  maddening  manner.  At  the  head  of  this 
organized  serpentine  orgy,  Stanford  football 
heroes  were  borne  upon  the  shoulders  of  jubi 
lant  students.  These  were  released  at  the  gate 
to  be  borne  triumphantly  in  a  tally-ho  through 
out  the  city,  to  be  followed  by  a  zigzagging  pro 
cession,  a  yelling  and  singing  mass  of  students. 
Near  the  east  gate  a  number  of  young  men, 
decorated  in  Blue  and  Gold,  clustered  together 
in  their  disparagement  resolved  to  tear  down  a 
strip  of  red  bunting  that  adorned  the  East 
bleachers.  The  moment  they  attempted  to  carry 
out  their  resolution,  some  of  them  rushed  to  the 
framework  and  began  wildly  tearing  at  the 
cloth,  perfectly  careless  of  the  surging  mass  of 
Stanford  sympathizers.  However,  David  was 
awake  to  the  insult  of  his  college  colors.  In 
an  instant  he  was  past  the  bleachers  and 
cleared  the  walls.  An  instant  more  and  he  had 
the  foremost  offender  by  the  heels,  and  with  one 
quick  jerk  cast  him  to  the  ground.  Then  a  gen 
eral  melee  ensued,  in  which  blows  were  received 
and  freely  given.  When  a  few  minutes  after 
wards  the  crowd  had  been  dispersed  by  peace 
makers,  David  lay  bleeding  and  unconscious, 
with  a  scalp  wound  inflicted  by  a  blow  an  inch 
above  the  right  temple.  Felicita,  from  her  place 
in  the  grand  stand,  watching  the  surging  multi- 
tud,  was  the  first  to  observe  the  melee.  She 
saw  David  as  he  rushed  forth  before  her  to 
leap  into  the  crowd  below.  It  was  then  that 


76  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

she  tore  away  from  the  side  of  the  captain  and 
followed  David  into  the  crowd,  but  was  thrust 
back  by  the  surging  mass. 

When  the  injured  man  opened  his  eyes  he 
saw  a  lithe,  female  form  bending  over  him,  ap 
plying  cold  water,  and  attempting,  with  a 
small  lace  handkerchief,  to  staunch  the  flow  of 
blood.  The  captain,  too,  was  there,  and  in  his 
large-hearted,  brotherly  way,  drove  back  the 
morbidly  curious  bystanders.  He  folded  David 
in  his  brawny  arms  and  carried  him  through 
the  gate  into  a  carriage,  with  orders  to  the 
driver  to  carry  him  to  their  home  on  Van  Ness 
Avenue. 

"Felicita,"  David  ventured,  as  they  were 
driving  along,  "can  you  ever  forgive  me?  I 
couldn't  stand  to  see  them  drag  our  colors  in 
the  dirt." 

"There  is  nothing  to  be  ashamed  of, 
McVeigh,"  said  Joel,  kindly. 

That  night  Felicita  did  not  go  to  the  thea 
tre.  She  was  not  there  to  listen  to  the  cheers 
for  David  McVeigh,  for  the  "Co-ed" — and 
every  Stanford  man  knew  who  was  meant  by 
"the  Co-ed."  She  remained  at  home  to  contrib 
ute  to  the  wants  of  a  wounded,  fevered  friend. 

Some  days  after  Felicita  and  David  were 
driving  through  the  beautiful  green  hills  that 
lay  between  the  University  campus  and  La 
Honda. 

"Felicita,"   he   ventured,    "have  you   quite 


El    Adelantada.  77 

made  up  your  mind  to  spend  your  life  among 
those  cannibal  Apaches?  Just  to  think!  What 
an  odd  girl  you  are!  Perhaps  you  will  forget 
it  by  the  time  you  graduate.  But  that  is  not 
long  now.  Let  me  see — four  months." 

"Quite  made  up  my  mind,  David.  But  then 
you  know,  Dave,  you  are  to  be  a  mining  engi 
neer.  Perhaps  you  will  come  to  Arizona  to 
discover  the  treasure  mines  that  it  is  reported 
the  brave  Colorado  and  the  early  padres  worked 
in  the  days  of  the  conquest,  and  later  hid  from 
marauding  Indians. 

"What  a  nice  little  story  for  our  'Sequoia/ 
if,  in  my  rambles  about  the  desert,  Dave,  I 
could  find  some  old,  old  Indian,  O,  a  hundred 
years  old,  who  would  tell  me  where  those  mines 
are,  because  I  had  fed  him  or  cared  for  him. 
Then  I  could  show  you  where  the  treasures  are, 
and  we  could  work  them  together,  and  become 
immensely  rich,  have  homes  and  lands  to  give 
the  poor  creatures  who  must  now  roam  about 
as  outlaws  in  the  sandy  deserts,  living  on  what 
they  can  steal  and  beg,  because  no  one  has  ever 
taught  them  how  much  better  it  would  be  for 
them  to  use  their  hands  in  honest  work.  David, 
I  once  dreamed  that  an  old,  old  Indian  woman 
told  me  a  great  secret.  Some  day  I  will  tell 
you  what  she  told  me." 

"But  I  cannot  understand,"  continued  David, 
"I  cannot  understand  why  you  of  all  people, 
should  want  to  go  into  the  darkness,  out  of 


78  A    Maid   of   Sonora. 

light  and  life.  You,  Felicita,  so  young,  so  cul 
tured,  so  ambitious  and  full  of  life,  should  want 
to  bury  yourself  there.  Can't  you  see  what  an 
injustice  it  would  be  to  that  dear  little  devoted 
mother?  Can't  you  see  the  wrong  in  it?  The 
wrong  to — Joel  ?"  he  continued  pleadingly,  and 
a  glance  from  her  eye  led  him  to  remark,  "I — 
I  cannot  think  that  you  love — Joel  Wilson — 
Felicita?" 

"David,"  her  voice  trembled  as  she  spoke. 
Had  he  also  probed  into  her  heart,  or  had  he 
heard  of  the  misfortune  of  the  captain?  The 
world  seemed  cruel  to  her  for  an  instant,  and 
in  that  cruelty  there  was  something  like  a  mock 
ery  of  honor  and  justice.  Oh,  could  he  but 
know  how  she  loved  Joel!  Could  she  but  tell 
David!  Tell  the  world  as  her  heart  told  her. 
Could  she  but  tell  David  that  she  believed  in 
Joel's  guiltlessness.  "Mananka,  I  am  inno 
cent  !" — these  the  captain's  words,  were  audibly 
written  upon  her  heart — and  she  knew  them  to 
be  the  truth. 

She  gazed  at  David  in  doubtful  surprise,  but 
she  had  misunderstood  his  meaning.  Not  jeal 
ousy  prompted  his  remark.  It  was  the  soul 
that  she  had  awakened  in  him  that  spoke.  It 
spoke  in  tones  of  hope  for  her. 

The  silence  that  ensued  was  almost  deaden 
ing  to  him.  Finally,  looking  him  square  in  the 
face,  she  began : 

"David,  David,  I  am  going  to  Arizona  after 


El    Adelantada.  79 

my  commencement  is  over;  it  will  be  best, 
best  for  you — and  for  me — and  for  the  cap 
tain,  too,  David.  And  as  you  are  my  friend,  I 
shall  ask  you  to  tell  Dr.  Jordan  and  Mrs.  Wing 
— they  have  always  been  very  kind  to  me — tell 
them  why  I  have  gone.  Mother  will  know,  and 
the  captain,  too.  In  the  midst  of  this,"  point 
ing  to  her  surroundings,  "a  great  voice  seems  to 
tell  me  never,  never  to  forget  who  I  am.  I  am 
going  back  to  my  people,  David,  to  the  Indians 
of  the  desert." 

Then  the  calm,  fixed  expression  on  her  face 
changed  to  one  of  anguish,  as  she  thought 
of  the  man  she  loved.  In  a  moment  she  re 
gained  her  self-possession,  and  she  related  to 
David,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  to  anyone, 
saving  Lou  Gordan — and  Lou  had  been 
more  a  sister  than  a  friend — all  she  had  ever 
heard,  and  all  she  recollected  of  her  childhood. 

"And  I  have  made  up  my  mind,"  she  con 
cluded,  "yes,  I  feel  it  is  the  task  God  has  fitted 
me  for,  to  give  my  education  and  my  heart  and 
my  life  and  my  all  to  my  people.  That  was 
what  I  was  born  for,  David,  and  educated  and 
suffered  for,  and,  oh!  it  is  no  use — God  has 
pointed  the  way,  the  only  way.  I  must  forget 
that  I  am  a  woman,  David,  forget  everything 
but  these  poor  creatures  to  whom  He  sends  me. 
Heaven  knows,  these  poor,  grovelling  beings 
are  my  brothers  and  my  sisters,  they  are  my 
flesh  and  blood.  God  has  given  me  this  charge. 


80  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

I  have  no  right  to  disobey.     I  will  go,  David." 

It  was  all  clear  to  him  now.  David  had 
nothing  to  answer.  The  placid  expression  on 
her  face  told  him  of  the  comfort  it  gave  to  her 
to  let  him  know  all.  His  own  silence  assured 
her  that  her  confession — for  it  was  a  confession 
even  of  her  love  for  Joel — would  remain  as  in 
violably  in  his  heart  as  it  was  in  hers. 

They  drove  on  to  where  the  hills  opened  into 
beautiful  dale,  enclosed  in  a  deep  wood  of 
nodding  sequoia  and  oak,  where  a  myriad  of 
poppies,  forming  great  beds  of  yellow,  reflect 
ing  gold,  held  up  their  proud  heads  to  heaven 
as  if  in  their  silence  they  were  singing  a  Te 
Deum  in  Holy  Mass. 

"How  beautiful!"  they  both  remarked,  al 
most  simultaneously,  and  David  ventured : 

"Felicita,  I  hope  your  whole  life  will  be 
spent  amid  just  such  blossoms  and  just  such 
beautiful  surroundings." 


Una    Culpa.  '  Si 


CHAPTER  IX. 

UNA   CULPA.* 

"These  blenches  gave  my  heart  another  youth, 
And  worst  assays  proved  thee  my  best  of 
love." 

MAJOR  WILSON  looked  rather  serious  and 
thoughtful  ag  he  left  the  Presidio  grounds  that 
evening.  The  week  had  been  a  busy  one  at 
army  headquarters,  preparatory  to  transferring 
certain  companies,  temporarily  stationed  at  San 
Francisco.  When  he  had  completed  the  usual 
routine  work  for  the  day,  he  felt  a  great  weight 
removed  from  his  shoulders. 

But  his  mind  was  not  at  ease.  The  tran 
quillity  of  his  military  life  had  been  broken  into. 
His  seriousness  was  not  all  due  to  overwork. 
For  him  there  was  a  problem  yet  to  solve.  He 
could  not  emancipate  himself  from  this 
thought. 

Joel  had  been  accustomed  to  taking  his  even 
ing  drive  with  his  mother ;  sometimes  with  Fe- 

*  An  Accusation, 


82  A    Maid   of    Sonora. 

licita,  or  occasionally  with  a  brother  officer,  or 
Lou  Gordan,  but  never  alone.  To-day  the  car 
riage  drove  away  with  only  one  occupant, 
Major  Wilson.  He  did  not  even  notice  the  sa 
lute  of  a  young  lieutenant  of  his  acquaintance, 
so  busily  was  he  occupied  in  his  thoughts.  All 
he  observed  was  that  men  and  vehicles  were 
coming  and  going,  and  such  significant  objects 
in  the  park  as  the  Museum  and  the  Music 
Stand  and  the  Tea  Garden.  And  he  would  not 
have  noticed  the  latter  had  it  not  been  for  a 
happy  picture  that  presented  itself  to  him;  the 
picture  of  a  nut-brown  lass  standing  on  the  rus 
tic  bridge  waving  to  him  as  he  passed.  But 
Felicita  was  not  alone,  therefore,  the  carriage 
did  not  stop  in  deference  to  her  friend.  It  con 
tinued  to  roll  over  miles  of  park  and  beach 
roads,  and  rattled  over  cobbled  streets  until  it 
halted  before  one  of  the  homes  of  Van  Ness 
Avenue. 

Felicita  was  at  the  door  to  meet  him  as  he 
dismounted.  He  greeted  her  carelessly  and 
passed  on.  For  some  reason  she  did  not  stop 
him  to  banter  with  him  as  usual,  and  as  she  had 
intended.  She  perceived  that  he  was  troubled. 

A  few  moments  later  Felicita  entered  with 
the  evening  paper,  without  a  word,  her  ex 
tended  hand  offered  him  the  periodical,  upon 
which  great  headlines,  clearly  exposed  to  view 
could  be  read : 

"Embezzlement  Disclosed."    For  a  moment 


Una    Culpa.  83 

more  her  eyes  fell  upon  the  lines:  "It  is  re 
ported  upon  the  best  authority,  that  Major  Joel 
Wilson,  of  Battalion  — ,  stands  accused  of  the 
felonious  appropriation  to  his  own  use  of  large 
sums  of  money  probably  amounting  into  the 
thousands,  from  the  treasury  of  the  Grand 

Lodge  of ,  for  which  he  has  been  acting 

in  the  capacity  of  secretary." 

Felicita  could  read  no  further.  Bursting  into 
tears,  she  involuntarily  threw  her  arms  about 
the  major's  neck,  sobbing  as  she  did  so: 

"I  do  not  believe  it,  Joel ;  I  never,  never  will 
believe  it.  It  is  false.  They  are  telling  lies 
about  you." 

For  a  moment  Joel  did  not  answer.  Then 
without  the  least  emotion  he  stated : 

"Yes,  Mananka,  it  is  false.  Thank  God,  that 
you  do  not  believe  it  is  true.  That  is  all  that 
I  feared,  Mananka,"  and  the  big,  brawny  sol 
dier  bowed  over  her  and  kissed  her. 


84  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 


CHAPTER  X. 

EL  CORAZON.* 

"Of  Cupid,  so  thou  pity  me." 

THERE  is  usually  a  coldness  and  distance 
about  college-bred  women  that  tags  them  wher 
ever  they  go.  There  is  usually  an  air  of  wis 
dom  and  prudish  sophistication  that  causes 
them  to  seem  unnatural,  and  too  often  unat 
tractive.  Our  admiration  for  them  increases, 
our  esteem  for  them  is  not  lessened,  but  they  do 
not  inflame  our  hearts  or  touch  our  chords  of 
sympathy.  It  is  possibly  not  that  they  are  edu 
cated  ;  it  is  because  they  imagine  that  their  edu 
cation  must  brandish  all  girlish  fancies,  sup 
press  all  impulse,  deaden  all  signs  of  passion,  in 
short,  give  them  an  air  of  completedness  with 
out  the  factor  "man,"  give  them  a  masculine 
rather  than  a  womanly  intellect,  turn  all  their 
energies,  their  forces,  their  talents  into  channels 
governed  by  the  head  only.  For  them  the 
heart  must  have  no  pulse,  the  mind  no  imagi- 

*The  Heart. 


El    Corazon.  85 

nation,  the  spirit  no  haven  of  love,  unless  they  be 
first  subjected  to  the  governing  spirit  of  self- 
sufficiency  which  too  often  is  their  battle  cry. 

Oh,  where  has  flown  the  soul  that  once  beat 
in  this  love  red  pulse,  so  airy,  delicate  and  fear 
lessly  careless  in  the  days  of  childhood,  so 
sweetly  confiding  gracefully  loving  and  play 
fully  fond  in  girlhood,  so  capable  in  impres 
sions,  yet  in  resistance  strong?  Has  college  re 
moulded  her  very  nature,  or  has  she  become 
the  mere  product  of  tendency — a  woman  with 
out  the  charm  womanly  ?  Is  the  original  lost  ? 
Is  she  no  more  a  Miranda,  a  Desdemona,  a  Per- 
dita,  a  Juliet  or  an  Imogen,  or  even  a  Portia? 

Happily  in  this  change  Felicita  lost  none  of 
her  girlish  charms,  but  rather  enriched  them 
and  invested  herself  with  those  that  may  be 
procured  from  the  terrace  above  which  she  was 
stepping.  Through  natural  deference  she  had 
made  few  confidential  friends,  and  while  she 
was  a  general  favorite,  there  was  that  subtle 
something  about  her  that  placed  her  a  little 
apart  from  her  comrades.  Whenever  they 
thought  of  it  they  attributed  it  to  the  story 
surrounding  her  adoption.  She  had  never- 
however,  reasoned  about  it,  and  yet  she  never 
overcame  entirely  the  sensitiveness  her  peculiar 
situation  forced  upon  her.  To  herself,  amid 
all  the  grandeur  of  her  surroundings,  she  was 
an  Indian. 

In  all  that  pertained  to  refinement  and  cul- 


86  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

ture  Felicita  was  certainly  well  endowed.  No 
shade  of  sin,  no  line  that  spoke  of  vanity  could 
be  traced  upon  those  love-lighted  features. 
Strife,  disappointment,  reverses,  the  rude  life 
of  her  childhood,  her  strange  encounters  and 
almost  irreparable  loss  of  father,  mother  and 
childhood's  companions,  demanded  no  expres 
sion  on  her  features  saving  an  occasional,  fleet 
ing,  questioning  sadness.  All  was  harmony 
within  that  soul,  without  consciousness  of  it 
and  without  effort.  Her  eyes,  large,  dark,  well 
rounded  dials,  that  peered  from  between  a  pro 
fusion  of  black  hair,  cheeks  and  cheek-bones 
Castilian,  refined  in  outline,  teeth  well  set  and 
well  framed,  a  nose  rather  Greek  than  Roman, 
somewhat  narrow  at  the  bridge,  lips  a  trifle 
thin,  yet  curving  in  a  jovial  expression  of  a 
satisfied  nature  above  a  chin  delicately  rounded, 
determined,  but  not  aggressive,  her  features 
blended  in  a  harmonious  whole  all  the  noble 
virtues  of  a  truly  noble  woman.  There  was 
that  about  her  genial  nature  that  bespoke  a 
strong  yet  flexible  intellect.  There  was  noth 
ing  about  her  nature  or  her  bearing  to  distract 
from  that  exalted  charm  that  invested  her  from 
infancy.  Her's  was  a  soul  of  love. 

Throughout  the  day  a  friend  had  visited  Fe 
licita  and  Louise.  The  day  was  one  for  recall 
ing  reminiscences,  and  the  young  woman's 
mind  reverted  to  the  earlier  days  of  her  life. 
Her  years  were  full  of  change,  and  each  change 


El    Corazon.  87 

had  brought  with  it  a  wealth  of  feeling.  There 
was  first  the  garrison,  then  the  convent,  and 
then  the  college.  First  the  soldier,  then  the 
Captain,  then  the  Major;  first  the  desert,  then 
the  village,  then  the  city;  first  the  guardian, 
then  the  friend  and  then — the  lover?  It 
seemed  to  her  to  have  been  the  life  of  someone 
else,  not  her  own.  But  there  was  another  one 
in  her  life,  a  little,  fond,  gray-haired  mother. 
The  thought  was  the  cause  of  struggling  emo 
tions  with  her.  She  had  all  her  life  placed 
gratitude  above  her  personal  wishes.  What 
ever  her  life  was  to  be  she  had  resolved  to  live 
it  for  the  happiness  of  those  who  were  more  to 
her  than  herself.  Joel's  mother's  fond  hopes, 
confided  to  her  in  an  atmosphere  of  trust,  were 
sacred  to  her.  It  was  a  sacrifice  that  she  must 
make  of  herself.  Was  there  not  a  God  that 
would  console  her?  Was  there  not  a  Heaven 
that  would  compensate  her  loss?  Was  there 
not  a  mother's  kiss  that  to  her  was  Heaven's 
own  reward?  Would  he  not  forgive  her  for 
his  mother's  sake  ?  Oh,  would  he  not  forgive  ? 
And  yet  he  must  never  know.  It  was  a  con 
fidence  that  she  may  not  abuse,  and  could  not 
if  she  may.  Was  it  not  his  mother's  whole 
hope,  whole  ambition,  that  Joel  should  marry 
in  the  high  walks  that  he  was  accustomed  to 
tread  ? — yes,  that  he  should  marry  Louise  Gor- 
dan.  Louise,  who  had  ever  been  a  boon  com 
panion,  a  sister  to  her.  What  was  she,  Felicita, 


88  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

but  an  unclaimed  Indian,  and  he,  proud  Major 
Joel  Wilson,  descended  from  one  of  the  first 
families  of  Virginia.  She  felt  ungrateful  ever 
to  have  lived  to  be  a  stumbling-block  to  his  hap 
piness;  to  have  come  between  mother  and  son, 
her  mother  and  her  brother,  her  mother  and 
her  loved  one ! 

One  by  one  such  thoughts  came  to  her,  and 
growing  bolder,  they  aroused  in  her  deeper 
anxieties  and  fears.  They  were  like  children 
who  had  grown  weary  of  play,  and  were  de 
manding  greater  attention  when,  with  one 
bound,  as  if  in  concert,  they  bore  down  upon 
her  fevered  brain  in  a  burst  of  tears  and  throbs. 

Within  every  heart  there  is  a  strength  that 
we  do  not  fathom  in  our  afflictions.  It  is  this 
hidden  sense  that  saves  us  in  moments  of  great 
est  disparagements.  It  is  not  reason.  It  is 
the  innate  consciousness  of  self-control  and 
self-possession,  called  into  play  by  inherent  feel 
ing,  that  we  dare  show  each  other  only  one  side 
of  our  nature,  namely,  the  strong  side. 

In  a  moment  the  tears  were  brushed  away,  in 
trust  that  time  would  change  all.  Perhaps 
after  a  while  the  Major  and  Louise  would  be  in 
a  home  of  their  own.  Then  if  she  could  not 
endure  it — was  she  not  going  to  return  to  the 
desert  anyway?  to  her  own  people,  her  own 
wild,  reckless,  helpless  people;  to  the  desert 
where  the  lark  and  mocking-bird  were  free  and 
happy,  and  she,  Felicita,  could  be  free  and 


El    Corazon.  89 

happy  with  them.  It  was  the  hope  of  youth,  it 
was  the  fondness  of  a  girlish  heart  that  was 
coming  to  her  resale.  Before  the  sun  had  set 
she  was  her  own  merry  self  again.  Her  fears 
were  banished,  only  perhaps  to  be  swept  back 
again  by  greater  heart  throbs.  But  these  four 
lines  dwelt  in  her  memory: 

"Must  we  never,  never  stand, 
Soul  to  soul  and  hand  to  hand? 
rAre  the  bonds  eternal  set, 
That  should  keep  us  strangers  yet?" 


90  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

EL  REDENTOR.* 

"In  this  world  it  is  not  what  we  take  up,  but 
what  we  give  up  that  makes  us  rich." 

JUST  what  occurred  behind  the  barred  doors 
of  the  Grand  Lodge  as  it  met  that  autumn,  no 
one  but  the  initiated  may  ever  know.  The  agi 
tation  among  its  members  at  its  opening,  and 
their  mysterious  secretiveness  at  its  close,  and 
the  immense  interest  evinced  by  all  the  Major's 
friends  during  its  session  indicated  that  his  wel 
fare  was  at  stake. 

As  the  Major  returned  home  on  the  second 
day  of  its  session  he  met  Felicita  driving  up 
with  her  new  trap  and  tandem  from  a  jaunt  in 
the  park.  The  young  officer  approached  her 
with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  and  handed  her  an 
evening  paper,  saying  as  he  did  so : 

"Mananka,  did  I  not  say  you  were  right?" 
and  Felicita  read : 

"The  charge  of  embezzlement  brought  on 

*The  Redeemer. 


El    Redentor.  91 

the  —  day  of  —  by  the  Grand  Lodge  of  —  was 
last  night  dismissed.  After  a  careful  scrutiny 
of  the  books  of  the  Lodge,  the  Committee  on 
Investigation  brought  in  a  report  favorable  to 
the  accused,  and  his  bondsmen  were  forthwith 
absolved.  The  mistake  arose  through  the  neg 
ligence  of  the  Auditing  Committee  in  the  keep 
ing  of  the  accounts."  Then  more  in  detail  con 
tinued  an  explanation  of  how  the  mistake 
arose.  When  Felicita  completed  her  hurried 
perusal  of  the  article,  the  Major  drew  from  his 
pocket  a  small  leather  case,  from  which  he 
took  a  letter  and  handed  it  to  Felicita.  It 
read: 

"Mv  DEAR  MAJOR: — The  service  you  have 
done  me  can  never  be  repaid.  God  knows,  since 
this  matter  was  made  public  I  have  hardly 
slept  or  lived.  My  fear  was  not  so  much,  be 
lieve  me,  for  myself  as  for  you,  for  your  kindly 
mother,  whom  the  blow  of  your  disgrace  would 
have  killed,  for  your  esteemed  sister,  and  for 
your  many  friends,  Major.  Had  your  kind 
ness  not  come  to  my  rescue  I  believe  your  noble 
nature  would  have  really  sacrificed  all  than  to 
have  allowed  me  to  bear  the  disgrace  which  I, 
not  you,  would  have  perpetrated.  I  can  never 
forget  how  much  I  have  indulged  in  your 
friendship  in  the  past,  and  what  a  friend  you 
were  to  me  in  my  present  need.  Where  you 
have  obtained  the  money  to  save  me  from  the 


92  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

bars  is  not  for  me  to  ask,  yet  I  regret  that  you 
should  have  had  to  make  a  sacrifice  for  one  so 
unworthy. 

"I  only  hope  that  the  day  may  not  be  far 
off  when  I  may,  in  some  slight  degree  at  least, 
be  able  to  return  so  great  a  favor,  and  now, 
Major,  I  can  only  humbly  beg  that  you  accord 
me  an  audience  soon,  that  I  may  better  show 
rny  gratitude,  and  understand. 

"Sincerely  and  fraternally, 

"CHARLES  MCCHARLES." 

Felicita  looked  at  the  Major  in  a  manner  that 
asked  a  hundred  questions,  and  he  answered 
her: 

"It  is  a  long  story,  Mananka.  A  story  that 
I  cannot  tell  you  all  about,  and  yet  I  have  so 
often  felt  that  you  ought  to  know  of  it.  But 
you  shall  not  know  all,  for  there  is  much  that 
concerns  my  friend  alone,  Mananka,  and  I 
know  you  would  never  have  me  abuse  his  trust 
in  me. 

"You  will  remember  the  day  that  Dr.  Coch- 
ran  drove  up  here  to  take  me  out  to  Ingleside. 
That  was  long  ago,  when  I  first  came  to  San 
Francisco,  and  mother  protested  against  my 
driving  out  with  him,  for  she  said  she  did  not 
like  his  looks.  Well,  that  was  the  beginning 
of  my  troubles.  You  know  I  often  went  to  the 
races  after  that,  and  one  day  I  met  McCharles 
there.  Shortly  after  we  met  at  lodge  again, 


El    Redentor.  93 

and  then  we  became  close  friends.  We  often 
met  at  the  track;  and  both  bet  heavily  at  times ; 
sometimes  we  would  lose  and  sometimes  win. 
After  a  while  losing  became  chronic  with 
McCharles,  and  then,  as  I  was  usually  flush,  I 
loaned  him  money.  After  a  while  I  began  to 
distrust  him,  not  because  he  refused  me  once 
or  twice  when  I  was  in  need  upon  a  pretence 
that  I  knew  to  be  false,  but  because,  without  his 
knowledge,  I  entrapped  him  in  deceptions  of 
which  I  was  the  victim.  One  day  he  came  to 
me  for  money,  and  I  blankly  refused.  He  said 
nothing.  Shortly  after  that  we  were  elected  as 
officers  of  the  Grand  Lodge ;  I  as  treasurer,  he 
as  auditor.  From  time  to  time  demands  came 
to  me  from  the  auditor  to  pay  out  certain 
moneys,  requisitions  that  I  suspicioned  to  be 
falsified.  I  knew  that  he  was  spending  large 
sums  at  the  races,  and  losing,  but  that  was  not 
my  affair.  Then  came  the  crash.  I  at  first 
thought  of  saving  myself,  and  you  and  mother. 
Then  one  evening  I  was  returning  from  the 
Presidio  on  the  car,  just  ahead  of  me  I  saw 
you  in  the  trap.  You  were  alone  and  could 
not  manage  the  horses,  that  were  frightened  by 
a  passing  ambulance.  Some  one  jumped  from 
a  passing  carriage,  caught  the  leader  just  as  he 
was  about  to  drag  the  trap  over  the  sidewalk, 
leaped  upon  the  seat,  and  drove  the  horses  into 
a  side  street.  Then  my  eyes  followed  him  as 
he  handed  you  the  reins,  tipped  his  hat  to  you, 


94  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

and  hastened  back  to  rejoin  his  carriage.  I 
saw  who  it  was.  It  was  Charles  McCharles. 
That  moment  I  thought  to  save  him,  for  it  was 
in  my  power,  and  so  I  have."  And  then  after 
a  moment's  pause,  "But,  Mananka,  you  never 
told  me  of  that  escapade,  and  it  might  have 
cost  you  dear,  and  why  didn't  you,  Mananka?" 

"And  why  didn't  you  tell  me  that  you  saw 
me?"  she  answered,  in  a  woman's  way. 

To  this  Joel  could  only  reply : 

"Well,  well,  Mananka,  I  always  distrusted 
that  man." 

Felicita  scarcely  heard  his  answer.  She  was 
thinking  of  Joel,  who  had  saved  a  forger  from 
justice  because  of  the  love  of  that  Joel  for  a 
poor  little  Indian  maid;  and  they  were  both 
silent  a  long  while. 


La    Querida. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

LA  QUERIDA.* 

"Love  is  the  life  of  the  soul,  it  is  the  har 
mony  of  the  Universe." 

AND  then  came  the  night  before  commence 
ment,  in  which  life  always  seemed  to  be  crowd 
ing  tumultuously ;  one  crested  wind-driven 
wave  upon  another,  tossed  into  a  little  sheltered 
bay,  which,  before,  perhaps  for  years,  had  rip 
pled  along  in  playful  murmurings,  unheedful  of 
the  tides,  coming  and  receding  in  well-beaten 
paths. 

The  thought  came  to  her  that  she  must  soon 
leave  these  surroundings,  which  she  had  so 
learned  to  love.  She  would  perhaps  that  day 
take  her  last  drive  with  old  "Uncle  John" 
through  the  Arboritum.  She  would  perhaps 
take  her  last  walk  about  the  Quadrangle,  that 
great  enclosed  Quadrangle  of  buff  stone  and 
red-tiled  roof.  The  great  oaks  and  the  tall, 
nodding  eucalypti  would  bid  her  good-bye,  as 

"The  Beloved. 


96  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

would  her  instructors  and  her  friends  that  she 
had  learned  to  esteem  so  highly.  The  shades  of 
the  Mausoleum,  the  bench  in  the  oak  near  the 
cacti  beds,  the  quiet  alcoves  of  the  library 
would  miss  their  recluse,  their  habitant  She 
thought  of  the  mornings  she  would  arise,  not 
to  look  upon  the  beautiful  Santa  Qara  valley, 
which  Bayard  Taylor  is  pleased  to  class  with 
the  plains  of  Mexico  and  the  Valley  Damascus. 
She  thought  of  the  days  when  in  the  evening 
twilight  she  could  no  longer  discern  the  Lick 
Observatory  crowning  Mount  Hamilton,  by 
the  glint  of  the  sun's  reflection,  when  she  could 
no  longer  look  upon  the  picturesque  Santa 
Cruz  range  to  the  southwest,  wafting  its  long 
shadows  eastward,  when  the  bay,  the  bay 
three  miles  in  the  distance,  would  no  longer  ap 
pear  to  her  vision  like  a  vast,  silvery  sheen. 
And  she  thought  of  human  associates,  too.  Of 
him  whose  large  and  warm  heart  has  so  in 
delibly  stamped  itself  upon  the  character  of 
the  University  he  guides  as  president,  whose 
calm  and  impassive  exterior  teaches  us  to  ad 
mire  and  respect  sincere  simplicity  and  frank 
expression  of  all  that  is  best  in  our  natures; 
whose  strong  conviction  of  right  and  un 
daunted,  brave  determination  to  stand  by  what 
his  convictions  tell  him  is  right,  urges  us  to 
forego  complying  too  hastily  with  public  opin 
ion,  and  to  act  according  to  the  dictates  of  our 
consciences  and  our  own  best  judgment  And 


La    Querida.  97 

thought  of  her  closer  associates,  to  whom  she 
owed  the  moulding  of  her  character,  and  the 
broadening  of  her  mental  and  spiritual  hori 
zon. 

Thoughts  like  these  occupied  her  mind  as  she 
sat  seemingly  attentive,  the  afternoon  of  her 
Commencement,  to  the  orations  of  the  occasion 
in  the  men's  old  gymnasium,  near  Encina, 
where  the  exercises  were  held  in  those  primi 
tive  days.  Such  thoughts  entered  her  mind  as 
she  stood  under  the  '95  oak  at  its  dedication, 
and  as  she  mingled  with  the  gay  and  happy  at 
Mrs.  Stanford's  reception.  They  had  a  deeper 
significance  to  her  than  mere  meditations,  be 
cause  they  contrasted  themselves  with  the  heat, 
and  the  desert,  and  the  wild,  uncouth  tribes  of 
the  Arizona  mountains. 

After  all  the  pomp  and  display  of  all  the  nu 
merous  formal  and  informal  affairs  of  Com 
mencement  week,  Felicita  and  Louise  antici 
pated  a  very  pleasant  affair  in  Felicita's  in 
formal  "at  home"  to  a  small  circle  of  intimate 
friends. 

When  that  evening  came,  and  the  last  flutter 
of  feminine  drapery  swished  over  the  stair 
landing,  the  Major,  who  was  enjoying  without 
the  cool  breeze  that  swept  over  the  bay,  entered 
and  resumed  a  chat  with  his  mother  that  his 
departure  a  few  moments  before  had  so  ruth 
lessly  broken  off. 

"It  hardly  seemed  to  me,  mother,  that  I  was 


98  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

as  young  as  they  when  we  made  such  a  sputter 
over  that  commencement  of  mine  at  the  Mili 
tary  Academy." 

"Yes,  we  scarcely  realize,  son,  that  the  years 
roll  by  and  leave  us  older.  But  then  you  seemed 
very  young  to  me,  Joel,  only  a  boy,  Joel,  my 
lad.  Do  you  know  I  have  been  thinking  of 
your  father  all  day  to-day.  Somehow  even 
now  when  I  look  at  your  broad  shoulders  and 
realize  your  age,  it  seems  as  though  my  little 
boy  has  been  lost  in  the  passing  years,  but  even 
then  the  little  Virginia  cadet  was  never  more 
dear  to  me  than  my  Joel  of  to-day." 

"And,  mother,"  responded  the  young  man, 
"how  is  it  with  Mananka  and  Louise?  Do 
you  think  that  college  life  has  changed  them 
towards  you,  mother — or  towards  me?" 

"Oh,  dear  me,  no!  but  why,  why  Felicita 
should  want  to  go  and  waste  her  culture  and 
her  sweetness  upon  those  worthless  Indians  is 
more  than  I  can  comprehend,  Joel.  It  has 
caused  me  many  a  sleepless  night ;"  and  then 
after  a  pause,  "but  I  suppose  it  is  natural. 
There  will  always  be  that  longing  in  her  na 
ture."  And  the  thin  lips  met  in  a  half-rebuking 
line  of  earnestness. 

"Now,  mother,"  replied  Joel,  who  had  be 
come  thoroughly  Western,  "do  not  let  that  note 
of  Southern  pride  creep  in.  I  know  that  no 
one  loves  Mananka  more  than  you  do,  mother. 
Has  she  been  speaking  of  it  lately,  and  so  made 


La    Querida.  99 

you  speak  of  it  now?  She  has  never  spoken 
of  it  to  me.  Isn't  that  odd?"  and  Joel  Wilson 
gazed  away  into  space  musingly. 

"That  is  just  her  way,  Joel.  She  thinks 
more  of  it  than  you  or  I  know ;  but  I  hope  she 
will  soon  stop  thinking  of  it  and  decide  to  re 
main  with  us  at  home.  The  old  house  would 
be  lonely  without  her.  She  doesn't  need  to  be 
planning  for  her  future.  If  she  ever  does,  her 
culture  and  her  beauty  will  win  her  a  lovely 
home  some  day.  I  am  very  content  to  have 
her  always  here  with  me,  Joel.  And  how  could 
Mananka  ever  think  of  leaving  Louise?  They 
have  been  such  close  companions  for  so  many 
years,"  and  turning  towards  him  she  continued, 
"Joel,  my  boy,  there's  the  girl  for  you.  Don't 
you  think  so?  Her  mother  and  I  were  close 
friends  as  girls.  I  can  remember  when  her 
father  came  to  court  her  mother.  He  was  a 
Colonel  then  in  the  Southern  army."  And  the 
kind  old  face  looked  into  the  younger  one  with 
a  fond  hope  of  seeing  approval  there,  but  she 
turned  away  disappointed,  for  the  Major  was 
not  thinking  of  the  banker's  daughter. 

A  visit  from  the  two  young  women  inter 
rupted  their  conversation,  and  left  his  mother's 
query  unanswered. 

As  Joel  turned  his  gaze  met  two  figures, 
daintily  dressed  in  white,  giving  the  appear 
ance  of  two  zephyrs,  such  as  one  would  read 
about  in  Moore's  "Lalla  Rookh." 


ioo  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

He  rose  to  go  upstairs,  and  paused  with  one 
foot  upon  the  first  step,  tantalizingly  uttering 
an  exaggerated  sigh : 

"Can  a  poor  mortal  be  expected  to  remain 
heart  whole  before  two  such  creatures?" 

"You  thought  you  would  say  something 
pretty  so  that  you  wouldn't  be  scolded  for  be 
ing  so  long  about  those  flowers,  didn't  you?" 
retorted  Louise. 

"And  I  know  someone  who  will  have  to 
present  himself  in  a  smoking  jacket  this  even 
ing  if  there  isn't  a  change  soon,"  added  Feli- 
cita,  with  a  look  of  teasing  authority. 

"Come,  now,  don't  both  of  you  scold,"  re 
turned  the  Major,  in  a  pretended  crestfallen 
tone.  "Here  are  the  posies,  girls,  and  I  can 
show  two  thorn-pricked  fingers.  You  ought  to 
sympathize  with  me  in  my  suffering.  Are  you 
going  back  upstairs  to  pin  them  on?" 

"Of  course,"  answered  Lou,  with  a  smile. 

"I  can  get  there  first,"  replied  the  Major. 

Whereat  they  all  three,  with  a  merry  laugh, 
ran  pell-mell  like  three  children,  and  made  such 
a  hub-bub  that  Mrs.  Wilson  hobbled  out  of  the 
room  on  her  crutches,  leaving  her  maid  to  fol 
low  in  anticipated  mirth. 

"Children,  children !"  laughed  .Mrs.  Wilson, 
in  mock  disapproval,  "shall  I  send  you  to  the 
nursery?  There  you  are  playing,  and  it  is 
seven  and  after!" 

"Oh,  goodness,"  murmured  Lou,  with  a  lit- 


La    Querida.  101 

tie  gasp,  as  she  relinquished  her  hold  on  Joel, 
and  they  both  ran  away  laughing,  while  Joel 
stood  breathless  at  the  end  of  the  stairs. 

The  evening  was  not  an  unusual  one.  There 
was  bowing  and  nodding,  and  complimenting 
and  merriment;  there  was  music  and  refresh 
ments,  and  toasting  and  story  telling,  cards, 
and  fortune  telling,  and  dancing. 

In  the  midst  of  the  mirth  the  Major  brought 
in  a  gypsy  fortune  teller,  procured  at  a  nearby 
gypsy  camp,  and  when  finally  the  Major's  for 
tune  was  told,  someone  listened  more  atten 
tively  than  the  rest.  Someone's  eyes  would 
have  reminded  you  of  those  of  Palladita  on  the 
night  of  her  wedding,  someone  turned  pale, 
then  flushed,  and  then  sighed  deeply. 

After  all  the  good-nights  were  said,  and  the 
guests  departed,  and  the  heavy  door  closed 
with  a  soft  click,  and  the  key  was  turned  almost 
noiselessly  in  the  lock,  our  brawny  soldier  stood 
with  his  hand  resting  on  the  shoulder  of  his 
loving  mother. 

"Tired,  little  mother?  You  have  done  well 
to  keep  so  cheery  to-night."  And  he  turned 
towards  her  with  an  involuntary  movement  as 
to  caress  her;  she  was  so  small  besides  his 
broad,  strong  stature. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  a  trifle  wearily.  "I  am 
tired,  and  it  has  grown  late,  Joel;  but  what  a 
merry  time  it  was,  and  I  was  so  proud  of  our 
girls,"  and  she  stroked  his  head  with  her  hand. 


IO2  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

As  Joel  was  helping  her  up  the  stairway,  she 
stopped  half  way  to  call  Felicita: 

"Are  you  coming,  too,  Mananka?"  Louise 
had  already  departed. 

"Yes,  mamie,"  answered  the  girl.  "Good 
night,  guardie,"  to  Joel,  and  she  was  already 
beside  the  little  mother,  who  stood  waiting  for 
her. 

"Are  you  going  to  need  Mananka?"  Joel 
asked,  gently. 

"Why,  no,"  she  answered,  questioningly, 
as  she  paused  on  the  next  step  to  hear  him  fur 
ther. 

"If  you  are  not  too  tired  I  would  like  to 
speak  with  you  a  moment,  Mananka.  I  must 
be  back  early  in  the  morning,"  he  offered  as  a 
slight  excuse. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  too  tired,  Joel,"  answered  Feli 
cita,  wonderingly.  "I'll  come — good-night, 
mother,  dear,"  and  the  kind  old  lady  kissed  her 
good-night. 

"It  seems  as  if  some  of  them  were  here 
yet,  Joel,"  laughed  Felicita,  as  she  picked  up  a 
withered  pink  rose  from  the  floor,  remember 
ing  having  seen  one  of  her  girl  friends  coyly 
toss  it  to  one  of  the  young  men  of  the  party 
who  had  sought  it,  had  missed  it,  and  she  was 
hurried  away  by  the  dancers,  while  the  rose, 
soon  forgotten,  was  trodden  under  heedless 
feet,  until  at  last,  marred  and  torn,  it  was  left 
to  wither  on  the  deserted  floor. 


La    Querida.  103 

"Do  you  know,  Mananka,"  he  began,  half 
heedless  of  his  surroundings — how  dearly  he 
loved  the  name,  "Mananka,"  that  name  of  the 
dusty  little  child  of  the  red-men,  who  had  woven 
her  silken-black  Andalusian  locks  so  closely 
about  his  heart  that  no  earthly  power  could  un 
twist  the  wavy  coils ;  "Mananka,"  how  the  name 
seemed  to  be  hers,  and  to  bind  within  itself 
every  thought  and  feeling  of " childish  grace  and 
sweetness.  "Do  you  know,"  he  reiterated,  "if  I 
was  to  be  asked  this  minute  who  is  the  happier, 
you  or  I,  I  could  scarcely  grant  you  the  honor." 

"And,  yet,  perhaps  I  should  still  be  wander 
ing  in  the  hot  Arizona  sands  had  you  and  your 
dear  mother  been  less  kind  to  me,  Joel,  less 
noble,  less  self-sacrificing." 

For  a  moment  they  sat  silently  gazing  into 
the  dying  embers. 

"No,"  he  retorted,  "no  sacrifice,  Mananka," 

"Yes,  it  was,  Joel,"  she  disputed,  "yes,  it 
was;  and  I  am  going  to  show  my  gratitude 
some  day,  when,  when  God  wills  that  I  can," 
and  she  tilted  one  slender,  little  slippered  foot 
on  the  fender,  demurely  musing. 

Joel  gazed  down  upon  her  bright,  dusky 
beauty  which  the  fire-light  and  her  snowy  robe 
cast  in  such  vivid  contrast. 

"And  do  you  know,  Mananka,  when  God 
will  will  that  you  can  ?"  he  added,  as  he  took  a 
seat  on  the  arm  of  the  chair  beside  her,  and 
took  her  upturned  face  in  his  two  broad  hands ; 


IO4  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

"right  now,  by  making  this  the  happiest  mo 
ment  of  my  life." 

She  did  not  misinterpret  his  meaning.  Her 
long  lashes  fluttered  over  her  startled  eyes,  and 
her  hands  crushed  the  petals  of  the  rose  heed 
lessly  that  they  held. 

"Joel!" 

Then  two  little  tears  made  their  way  through 
two  soulful  eyes  looking  pleadingly  into  his. 
He  knew  then  what  a  sacrifice  his  life  had  been 
for  her.  He  knew  better  what  a  sacrifice  the 
simple  inflection  of  his  own  name  meant  for 
that  trusting,  white-haired  mother  who  had 
given  up  her  whole  life  to  him,  and  to  her,  and 
he  felt  sad. 

For  a  moment  they  were  both  silent,  then 
Mananka  began : 

"Joel,  I  am  going  away.  I  am  going  far 
away  to  Arizona,  to  my  own  people,  to  show 
them  how  to  live  nobler  and  better  lives.  I 
know  that  you  will  forgive  me,  Joel.  I  know 
in  time  you  will  forgive  me,  and  you  will  help 
me  as  you  have  always  done.  Yes,  I  came  into 
your  life  as  a  poor,  little,  homeless,  nameless 
waif,  with  not  a  visible  tie  connecting  me  with 
a  single  living  human  being.  You  became  a 
brother  to  me,  more,  you  became  father, 
brother,  sister,  all  in  one.  And  Joel,"  she  turned 
to  him  now  and  looked  him  square  in  the  tear- 
stained  face,  "I  have  always  thanked  God  that 
He  makes  men  who  are  whole-souled  and 


La    Querida.  105 

strong  like  you  are,  and  that  He  makes  women 
with  loyal  and  true  hearts.  He  means  that  they 
should  make  homes  that  will  perpetuate  His 
love  and  His  goodness,  and  yet,  Joel,  He  does 
not  wish  either  the  one  or  the  other  to  sacrifice 
all  toward  that  home.  Oh,  Joel,  there  are 
women  who  have  beauty  and  fame  and  wealth, 
women  of  quality,  whose  names  and  whose 
families  would  be  an  honor  to  you  and  to  your 
true  Southern  blood,  and  whose  love  would 
honor  any  man.  Joel,  think.  What  am  I  that 
you  should  love  me!  Joel,  Joel,  it  would  only 
be  a  sacrifice, — a  greater  sacrifice,"  and  she 
threw  out  her  hands  imploringly,  as  if  begging 
him  to  say  no  more. 

"Sacrifice,  Mananka?  Is  it  sacrifice  for  a 
man  to  accept  as  a  gift  that  which  is  dearest  to 
him  in  all  the  world?  Mananka,  then  the  old 
home  must  lose  its  sunshine?  No,  I  cannot 
live  here  then,  not  without  your  love,  Ma 
nanka  !" 

"My  love — not  love  you,  Joel  ?  Oh,  heavens, 
I  love  you  only  too  well — but  you  will  forgive 
me,  Joel, — you  will  forgive  me — and  you  will 
think  of  mother,"  and  as  she  looked  up  at  him, 
with  a  determined  resoluteness  in  her  eyes,  he 
bent  over  her  and  quietly  impressed  a  kiss  as  if 
she  were  a  dear  one  passing  out  of  his  life. 
"Good-night,  child,"  he  added,  and  yet  he  was 
conscious  that  there  would  be  another  time  for 
him,  somewhere  in  the  vague,  distant  future, 


io6  A    Maid    of   Sonora. 

when  there  should  be  no  barrier  between  their 
loves.  For  the  first  time  he  understood.  It 
was  the  noblest  sacrifice,  and  he  loved  her  now 
in  a  manner  that  he  had  never  loved  before. 

There  was  little  said  that  morning  at  the 
breakfast  table.  No  song  bird  as  usual  flitting 
from  quarter  to  quarter  in  merry  laughter  and 
jubilant  song.  No  sunshine  that  beamed  from 
a  fair,  benevolent  face  where  it  was  used  to 
shine  in  loving  and  life-giving  kindness.  A 
night  of  tears  had  banished  that  laughter.  A 
night  of  sobs  drowned  the  musical  notes  that 
were  wont  to  come,  but  in  all  this  sadness  a 
firm,  sweet  look  of  determination  took  posses 
sion  of  those  features;  a  determination  that 
only  three  understood. 

A  few  days  after  a  great  tear  dropped  from 
a  soldier's  eye  as  he  signed  his  name  to  a  letter 
addressed  to  a  brother  officer  at  Fort  Grant.  It 
was  a  letter  asking  that  his  ward  might  be  ad 
mitted  as  a  nurse  to  care  for  the  sick  at  the 
garrison,  and  to  administer  to  the  Indians 
there.  Then  after  a  few  days  of  weary  wait 
ing,  in  which  Felicita's  whole  life  seemed  to  be 
undergoing  a  change,  a  change  so  great  that 
again  and  again  both  the  Major  and  Mrs.  Wil 
son  attempted  with  vain  pleading  and  reason 
ing  to  persuade  her  from  her  purpose,  but  her 
answer  was  always  the  same,  "Mother,  I  must 
go, — I  must,  mother!  It  is  all  for  the  best! 
No,  no,  Joel!"  Then  came  the  looked-for  tele- 


La    Querida.  107 

gram  welcoming  her  to  a  new  life  and  a  new 
duty. 

That  evening  at  Oakland-Mole  two  tear-wet 
cheeks  were  pressed  one  against  the  other ;  one 
old  and  white  and  wrinkled  from  which  the 
Sun  of  Heaven  had  so  long  sent  forth  its  beams 
in  all  kindness  and  refined  benevolence  of  soul, 
the  other  cheery  and  young,  bespeaking  a  heart 
of  love  and  life  of  sympathy,  and  as  the  lips  of 
these  two  touched  each  asked  herself,  "Why, 
why  this  parting?" 

There  were  two  battles  for  Mananka.  There 
was  but  one  for  him.  Yet  his  manly  heart 
nearly  broke  as  he  helped  her  into  the  already 
moving  car.  He  bent  over  her  tear-stained 
face,  kissed  her  good-by,  and  whispered : 

"Mananka,  somethings  tells  me  I  will  be 
with  you  soon,"  and  he  leaped  out  of  the  car 
to  rejoin  his  mother,  as  it  rolled  out  of  the 
yards  of  the  Mole. 


io8  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

LA  FORTALEZA.* 

"We  pick  our  own  sorrows  out  of  the  joys 
of  other  men,  and  from  their  sorrows  likewise 
we  derive  our  joys." 

As  the  sun  again  arose  to  renew  his  battle 
with  the  arid  earth,  there  began  a  new  experi 
ence  for  Felicita  in  the  Fort  Grant  reservation. 
She  could  scarcely  believe  that  it  was  herself, 
here,  in  this  desert  waste. 

As  the  stage  rolled  on  from  the  station  to 
the  Fort  she  could  catch  a  few  faint  glimpses 
of  childish  delight,  of  time  when  she  stood  in 
awe  before  the  old  padres.  Faint,  shadowy 
memories  of  her  childhood  flitted  across  her 
memory.  "Had  the  beginning  really  been  like 
this?"  The  hills  looked  quaint  and  bare 
against  the  cloudless  sky  except  in  patches 
where  the  sun-scorched  earth  and  brush  were 
heaped  in  lonely  mass.  Not  a  green  thing  ap 
peared  in  sight,  save  far  down  the  hill-rimmed 

*  The  Garrison. 


La    Fortaleza.  109 

valley,  where  a  thin,  winding  thread  of  willows 
marked  the  path  of  a  weary  little  stream,  that 
laboriously  strove  to  carry  its  waters  to  the 
sea,  but  finally  sank  helplessly  into  the  sand, 
almost  untraceable,  until  the  scanty  rains  of 
autumn  gave  it  new  strength  to  struggle.  Here 
and  there  bunches  of  knot-grass  and  a  few 
spears  of  salt-weed  could  be  seen,  grey  with 
dust.  Over  this  vast  wound  a  white,  rut- 
covered  highway,  over  which  a  lone  horse 
man  rode.  Doubtless  he  was  one  of  the 
Reservation  Indians  coming  for  tobacco,  or  to 
lounge  about  the  silent  garrison. 

As  the  rider  plodded  doggedly  along  he  left 
behind  a  cloud  of  dust  that  arose,  hiding  the 
trees  behind  him.  It  surely  seemed  far  more 
lonely  now  than  in  the  days  of  her  infancy. 

As  the  stage  rolled  up  before  the  office  door, 
Mananka  alighted  without  the  least  ado,  drew 
the  serape  she  had  bought  in  Tucson  closer 
about  her  shoulders,  and  stepped  to  the  open 
door  of  the  office,  in  which  the  Post  quarter 
master  was  standing,  nodded,  and  addressed 
him: 

"I  am  Miss  Wilson,  sir.  Is  Major  Dupre 
in?" 

She  was  shown  into  the  office;  a  gentleman 
arose  and  addressed  her : 

"I  am  Major  Dupre,  madam." 

She  handed  him  a  letter. 

"I  have  been  expecting  you,  Miss  Wilson," 


no  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

the  gallant  young  officer  answered.  "You  are 
very  welcome,  indeed.  We  do  not  often  have 
visitors  here.  And  you  have  come  to  work 
among  the  Indians.  Well,  a  hopeless  and 
thankless  task,"  and  he  turned  and  smiled  as 
if  to  say  "what  folly,"  and  added,  "I  will  con 
duct  you  to  your  apartments." 

Their  path  led  them  down  a  long  hall,  over  a 
stairway,  to  a  small,  cheerless  room,  with  bare 
walls,  carpeted  with  old,  worn  blankets,  and  a 
jaguar  skin  for  a  rug.  The  emeublement  of 
the  room  was  in  accord ;  a  rude,  wooden  wash- 
stand  and  a  table,  a  bench,  two  camp  chairs, 
and  a  camp  cot,  with  two  red  blankets  to  form 
a  sofa.  On  one  side  there  was  a  dresser  of 
hard  oak,  and  a  large  mirror,  the  dust  still 
clung  to  it,  newly  purchased.  A  few  days, 
however,  brought  about  a  transformation  in 
that  room;  calico  curtains  screened  the  little 
windows,  a  bright  spread  was  thrown  over 
the  table.  It  contained  books  and  pictures,  and 
a  thousand  little  souvenirs  and  pretty  trifles. 

That  evening  Felicita  met  the  ladies  of  the 
camp — few  that  they  were — genial  young 
women,  but  of  a  rather  negative  type,  whose 
husbands  thought  for  them,  talked  for  them, 
and  lived  for  them.  However,  they  were  tol 
erable,  and  if  not  an  inspiring  factor  in  the  life 
of  the  good  Samaritan,  yet  at  least  they  did  not 
stand  in  the  way  of  her  endeavors. 

That  night  as  Felicita  repaired  to  her  room, 


La    Fortaleza.  U 1 1 

turning  from  all  the  mysterious  vagueness  of 
the  day,  she  seated  herself  in  the  plain  little 
rocker,  almost  her  only  article  of  comfort,  and 
closing  her  eyes,  she  wandered  away  to  her  girl 
hood  home,  and  the  loved  ones  there.  She 
seemed  to  see  those  she  loved  sitting  in  the 
gaslight,  which  fell  equally  as  soft  on  the  dark 
hair  as  the  silvery  locks.  After  a  while  her 
eyes  opened  and  she  found  all  so  silent  and 
lonely.  Then  sinking  upon  her  knees,  and 
flinging  her  arms  down  upon  the  window  sill, 
she  buried  her  quivering  face  in  her  hands,  and 
her  figure  shook  with  sobs  of  grief. 

"Oh,  it  is  so  much  harder  than  I  dreamed," 
she  moaned.  "No  one,  no  one,  cares.  Oh, 
why  could  I  not  have  been  born  like  he!  Why 
could  I  not  have  been  her  daughter  indeed! 
Oh,  mother,  dear,  good  mother,  why  could  your 
little  girl  not  stay  and  be  your  little  girl  al 
ways,  and  Joel — Joel " 

The  sobs  became  pitiful,  little  audible  plead 
ings  that  gradually  exhausted  themselves,  and 
subsided  with  the  faint  tremblings  of  her  bent 
shoulders.  At  last  she  became  silent  again,  and 
raised  her  tear-stained  face  and  looked  at  the 
silent  scene  before  her  with  eyes  fully  open. 
Once  more  resolute,  in  reverence,  she  bowed 
her  head,  and  with  clasped  hands,  prayed  to  the 
God  that  had  saved  her  from  the  thorns  of  the 
cacti,  and  the  diseases  and  poverty  of  her  In- 


H2  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

dian  neighbors,  and  with  that  remorse  vanished 
forever  from  her  heart. 

Before  long  she  was  a  well-known  visitor 
at  all  the  Indian  dwellings  for  miles  and  miles 
around.  So,  too,  gradually,  she  became  ac 
quainted  with  the  inmates  of  the  Fort,  and  the 
poor  wretches  in  the  hovels  about  it. 

Her  first  endeavors  met  with  little  encourage 
ment  at  the  garrison.  The  men,  while  always 
kind  and  obliging,  looked  upon  her  aspirations 
as  a  woman's  whim,  as  an  expression  of  eccen 
tricity.  When  she  reported  to  the  army  phy 
sician  for  duty  his  cynical  smile  as  he  gave  her 
his  instructions  indicated  his  interest  in  the 
poor  creatures  under  his  charge.  Upon  speak 
ing  to  an  officer  about  her  work  she  met  with 
the  reply : 

"Yes,  miss,  there's  a  good  many  sick  ones 
among  the  Indians,  but  the  squaws  are  a  surly 
lot,  and  I  guess  you  won't  get  much  thanks  for 
your  trouble.  You'll  come  to  think  like  the 
rest  of  us ;  that  these  people  are  scarcely  human. 
Surely  God  has  forgotten  them,  they  have  lost 
every  sense  but  greed." 

"Well,  sir,  do  you  think  one  might  help  the 
children?"  she  replied.  "Surely  they  would 
not  resent  that?  If  they  are  ill  it  seems  to  me 
someone  ought  to  help  them.  Why,  they  might 
die  in  this  terrible  heat." 

"Yes,  they  not  only  might,  but  they  do,  and 
sight  better  for  them,  too.  What  are  they 


La    Fortaleza.  113 

good  for,  anyway?  They  just  live  to  eat  and 
to  loaf  and  rob  when  they  are  young,  and  to  be 
left  to  die,  if  the  Fort  does  not  take  care  of  them 
when  they  are  old.  They  don't  care  any  more 
for  one  another  than  they  do  for  their  clogs. 
No,  no,  not  nearly  so  much.  And  here  are 
these  poor  soldiers,  cooped  up  here  to  watch  the 
worthless  lot,  living  on  nerve  tension.  And 
what  do  they  get  for  it?  A  mighty  poor  ex 
istence,  I  can  tell  you,  miss.  But  the  situation 
reaches  a  climax  when  the  young  women,  such 
as  you,  are  sent  here  among  them.  It  is  hard 
enough  for  us  rough  men,  God  knows,  this 
desert  and  heat.  Yes,  I  know  in  a  way  we  are 
to  blame.  The  Government  run  'em  in  here  like 
we  do  sheep  into  a  corral.  But  we  had  to  do 
it  to  protect  ourselves.  No,  that's  no  reason 
we  shouldn't  be  human.  Well,  yes,  if  you  in 
sist  upon  it,  I  suppose  it  will  do  no  harm  for 
you  to  go  and  work  among  them  in  their  filth 
and  wretchedness.  But  don't  expect  any 
thanks,"  and  he  left  her  to  send  one  of  the 
women  with  her  upon  her  first  mission. 

Together  with  two  guards  that  were  sent 
with  them,  they,  Felicita  and  her  companion, 
wound  their  way  to  a  little  one-room  adobe, 
which,  to  one  unaccustomed  to  Indian  life, 
would  hardly  suggest  a  human  habitation.  The 
broken  earthen  walls  were  barely  able  to  sup 
port  the  mat  of  tule-weed  which  served  as  a  roof 
and  this  itself  was  broken  into  the  last  stage 


H4  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

of  dilapidation.  The  wind  had  beaten  against 
it  for  years,  and  it  leaned  feebly  towards  the 
northward,  taking  but  meagre  comfort  in  the 
further  support  of  two  poles  which  had  long 
since  staggered  under  the  weight  of  its  de 
crepitudes.  The  floor  was  of  dirt.  On  the 
walls  hung  a  few  lithographs  picked  up,  no 
doubt,  about  the  Fort.  In  the  door  sat  an  old 
woman  in  a  bewilderment  of  rags.  Her  hair 
was  fantastically  bound  in  a  red  bandanna. 
Her  figure  was  huddled  in  a  heap  over  a  moist 
clay  pot  which  she  was  busily  ornamenting  with 
weird  blue  reptiles,  that  bore  somewhat  of  a 
resemblance  to  braids.  About  her  were  strewn 
some  few  jars,  and  to  one  side,  within,  were 
built  up  a  few  stones,  where,  cold  days  and 
nights,  a  fire  was  built  whose  smoke  issued 
through  a  hole  in  the  roof,  when  the  wind,  in 
its  fury  did  not  drive  it  back  into  the  house. 
In  one  corner  were  piled  up  scraps  of  blankets 
and  wearing  apparel  used  as  bedding. 

The  old  hands  kneaded  the  dark  clay,  which 
was  no  less  grimy  than  they  were,  and  occa 
sionally  altered  the  position  of  the  cigarette 
tightly  held  between  her  wrinkled  lips,  and  the 
smoke  of  which  spasmodically  hid  the  face 
above  it. 

As  the  two  women  approached,  she  grunted 
once  or  twice,  but  neither  ceased  her  work  nor 
looked  up. 

"Little  girl  heap  sick?"  asked  Felicita. 


La    Fortaleza.  115 

"Uh,  Uh !"  grunted  the  old  squaw. 

"Oh,  they  cannot  talk  any  English,"  re 
marked  Mrs.  Marshall,  "and  not  much  Span 
ish,  either.  Some  of  them  understand  a  little, 
but,  never  mind,  go  on  in,  we  will  find  the  child 
lying  about  somewhere." 

"Why,  poor  little  creature!"  said  Felicita,  as 
they  entered  and  found  the  child  lying  on  a 
heap  of  rags.  "Her  hands  are  burning  hot 
She  will  die  in  this  dark,  close  room." 

"Oh,  no,  she  won't,"  offered  her  companion. 
"Apaches  can  stand  lots  of  dirt.  They  do  not 
know  any  difference,  and  it  does  not  hurt 
them." 

"Poor  child,"  retorted  her  companion,  "her 
eyes  are  as  large  as  saucers.  Her  fever  is  very 
high." 

And,  Felicita,  not  heeding  her  companion, 
was  all  attention  to  the  little  heap  of  misery  be 
fore  her,  so  quick  is  a  true  heart  to  bleed  with 
compassion  for  the  suffering.  As  her  hands 
busied  themselves  with  the  self-appointed  task, 
Felicita's  brain  was  buried  within  a  flood  of 
thought.  Oh !  to  think  that  perhaps  she  was 
once  like  this!  What  if  no  one  had  ever  cared 
to  help  her!  How  much  she  owed  for  all  God's 
goodness  to  her !  We  never,  never  know  of  the 
awfulness  of  Indian  degradation  until  we  see 
it  ourselves.  Can  there  be  anything  more 
wretched?  Can  there  be  anything  more  de- 


n6  A    Maid   of   Sonora. 

praved  than  these  grimy,  black-haired  creatures 
of  the  desert  ? 

While  these  thoughts  occupied  her  mind,  she 
tidied  the  little  creature's  coarse  black  hair, 
smoothed  the  hard  bed,  and  put  some  cooling 
medicine  between  the  parched  lips.  The  child's 
black,  mournful  eyes  continued  to  follow  her 
every  movement,  with  a  startled  wonderment, 
as  if  to  say,  "What  does  it  all  mean?" 

So  they  traveled  from  hovel  to  hovel,  con 
tributing  as  they  went;  sometimes  entering 
one-roomed  adobes  like  the  one  just  described, 
sometimes  stopping  at  little  brush  shacks.  The 
same  dirty  scenes  were  presented  to  them  again 
and  again.  In  some  instances  they  were  a  trifle 
varied  by  the  presence  of  the  lords  of  the 
manors,  who  invariably  sat  about  smoking  in 
stolid  heedlessness  of  their  slaving  womankind. 
In  some  instances  there  were  sick  children,  and 
occasionally  a  feeble  remnant  of  a  past  genera 
tion,  but  in  most  cases  it  was  simply  a  repetition 
of  ignorance  and  grime. 

"Well,  miss,"  said  Mrs.  Marshall,  on  their 
way  to  the  Fort,  "I  suppose  you  see  now  what 
worthless  creatures  they  are.  Your  toil  is  use 
less.  You  might  return  and  not  find  a  trace  of 
to-day's  work.  It  would  all  need  to  be  done 
over  again." 

"Oh,  but  they  are  so  helpless,"  replied  Feli- 
cita.  "Maybe  after  a  while  when  they  see  how 


La    Fortaleza.  117 

much  better  it  is  for  them  they  will  be  glad  to 
follow  the  better  way." 

"No,  they  will  not.  No  one  can  help  them," 
came  the  answer,  with  a  conviction  which  bit 
ter  experience  had  made  beyond  dispute. 

A  flash  of  pitiful  sympathy  passed  over  the 
young  face,  but  the  girl  made  no  reply,  and 
they  walked  on  silently. 

When  Felicita  went  to  her  room  that  night 
she  seated  herself  at  the  window  and  gazed  out 
upon  the  starlit  plain.  How  different  it  all 
seemed  from  what  the  morning  lights  had 
painted.  The  pale  moon  softened  the  rugged- 
ness  of  the  hills,  covering  them  with  a  mellow 
radiance.  What  a  wide,  wide  waste  it  was, 
and,  oh,  how  much  the  young  eyes  saw  to  do, 
and  how  strong  was  the  heart  to  meet  the  yearn 
ings  of  her  soul ! 

There  are  moments  when  our  souls  are  so 
full  that  our  thoughts  are  crowded  into  a  mass 
of  indistinguished  chaos.  So  it  was  that  night 
with  Felicita.  Her  own  life  and  its  require 
ments  were  swallowed  up,  as  it  were,  by  this 
great  universal  problem,  "humanity,"  which 
had  conquered  greater  minds  than  hers. 

From  the  very  first  Felicita  applied  herself 
with  unfailing  devotion  to  her  task.  Some 
times  she  would  stay  even  into  the  nights,  when 
it  was  necessary  to  be  at  the  side  of  the  sick; 
but  never  was  she  neglected  by  the  soldiers  and 
officers  at  the  Fort,  who  soon  learned  to  love 


n8  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

her,  especially  the  sick  and  the  comfortless; 
they  were  to  her  like  the  stricken,  aged  beggar, 
whose  wrinkled,  care-laden  brow  the  pearly 
white  hand  of  the  kindly  nun  is  not  too  sacred 
to  stroke.  They  were  indeed  red  men  and  red 
women,  many  of  them  criminals  by  nature  and 
condemned  by  justice,  and  yet,  to  her  at  least, 
they  had  souls.  Souls  with  responsive  chords  if 
one  only  knew  where  to  find  them.  And  so  in 
a  way  her  sacrifice  was  being  recompensed. 

"And  how  do  you  like  your  young  mistress?" 
asked  an  officer  of  Marianella,  Felicita's  hand 
maid,  as  he  found  her  dreamingly  basking  in 
the  sun  on  the  veranda  of  the  garrison. 

"Very  much,  surely,"  she  answered,  in  her 
soft,  Mexican  tongue,  "but  I  fear  that  she  is  in 
love,  Captain,  and  that  her  lover  is  in  heaven," 
pointing  up.  "Sometimes  she  walks  along  for 
miles  and  she  speaks  not  one  word,  wearily  her 
eyes  scan  the  desolate  land,  wearily  they  follow 
the  paths  and  trails  in  their  windings  over  the 
mesa  below,  wearily  they  watch  the  ravens  as 
they  fly  overhead,  clapping  their  wings  and 
hovering  with  doleful  cries  over  the  solitary 
sycamore  on  the  plain.  Sometimes,  I  think 
there  is  something  in  her  life  like  this  tree, 
which  does  not  call  for  me  or  you,  Seiior,  nor 
for  "la  sefiora,"  your  wife,  but  for  some  one 
who  is  not  here  to  keep  her  company.  Perhaps 
he  is  there,"  and  she  pointed  up  again  to  the 
blue  sky. 


La    Fortaleza.  119 

That  day  Felicita  had  started  early  for  a 
brush  hut  far  out  on  the  reservation,  where  she 
had  gone  to  administer  to  a  case  of  small-pox, 
a  disease  at  that  time  very  prevalent  among  the 
Indians  about  Fort  Grant.  While  she  was  there 
an  old,  old  squaw,  huddled  up  upon  a  bunch  of 
rags  in  one  corner,  who  seemed  to  be  endowed 
with  greater  intelligence  than  the  rest,  and 
claimed  to  be  a  Yaqui,  one  of  Mexico's  most 
advanced  and  proudest  races,  spoke  to  her  of 
Sonora  and  Sinaloa,  and  the  Indian  wars  and 
Mexican  troubles,  and  in  these  incongruous 
ramblings  over  the  past  she  spoke  of  a  little 
Mexican  girl,  "muy  pequefia,"  very  small,  that 
had  once  fallen  into  her  hands,  after  a  struggle 
that  the  Indians  had  with  the  whites  near  Her- 
mosillo.  Felicita  came  to  be  regarded  as  one 
of  their  own  people  by  these  cautious  denizens 
of  the  desert,  and  they  frequently  spoke  to  her 
of  their  wanderings  as  they  did  also  of  their 
troubles. 

"Mexican  people  steal  our  horses  and  chil 
dren,"  the  old  woman  stated,  "and  we  can 
never  trust  to  their  promises.  There  was  a 
Mexican  a  long  time  ago,  but  I  cannot  remem 
ber  his  name,  who  joined  us,  and  told  us  that 
Captain  Mendez  had  told  his  white  men  to  kill 
all  the  children  and  the  squaws  of  the  Yaquis, 
and  that  the  nuns  at  the  convent  in  Hermosillo 
would  call  us  to  a'  barbecue  of  sheep  and  fri- 
joles  (beans),  and  that  if  we  went  we  would 


I2O  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

all  be  poisoned  and  die.  Not  long  after  that 
we  were  asked  to  come  to  the  barbecue  at  the 
convent,  but  the  day  before  one  of  our  men  who 
had  been  at  the  convent  suddenly  took  sick  and 
died.  This  angered  everyone.  The  Mexican 
who  was  with  us  urged  on  our  men.  They  fell 
upon  the  convent,  killed  many  of  these  wicked 
people,  and  took  away  the  wife  and  little  daugh 
ter  of  this  Mexican  captain.  Then  the  Mexi 
can  and  Gandora,  our  leader,  quarrel  about  the 
woman,  and  so  my  tribesmen  drove  the  leader 
away.  Gandora  decided  to  send  the  woman 
back,  because  he  had  been  told  by  the  old  men 
of  the  tribe  that  if  anything  happened  to  her  a 
scourge  would  destroy  all  our  people.  But  the 
first  night  she  died.  I  do  not  know  why.  I 
think  because  she  worried  for  the  captain  so. 
They  gave  the  little  girl  to  me.  After  a  while  I 
left  them  and  came  north  with  the  Apaches.  I 
brought  the  little  girl  with  me,  but  Mescalero 
claimed  her  and  took  her  away  from  me,  and 
I  never  saw  her  again.  Sometimes  I  look  at 
you  and  think  you  look  like  that  little  girl,  Se- 
norita." 

The  story  puzzled  Felicita.  Could  the  story 
be  true?  Could  this  Captain  Mendez  be  her 
father?  "Will  the  mystery  some  day  be  re 
vealed  to  me,"  thought  Felicita,  as  she  sat  at 
the  cabin  door  looking  over  an  infinitude  of 
hopeless,  changeless  mesa,  over  fields  and  fields 
of  hot,  vibrating  sand,  with  only  an  occasional 


La    Fortaleza.  121 

bush  of  greasewood,  or  mesquite.  Away  off  in 
the  distance  she  could  see  rough, frowning  rocks 
in  the  mountains,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that 
they  stood  for  all  that  was  lonely  and  desolate 
in  life.  It  seemed  to  her  the  picture  of  her  own 
existence  unfolding  before  her  through  the 
story  of  the  old  squaw,  lone  and  dread  and  bar 
ren.  This  desert  without  a  relief  was  to  her 
like  her  future  without  him ;  the  far-off  moun 
tain  with  unsupportable  cliffs  represented  to  her 
the  obstacle  that  she  could  never  surmount,  her 
love  for  Joel.  And  as  she  turned  away  from 
both  with  a  sigh,  her  eyes  fell  upon  a  cool  val 
ley  between  two  hills  almost  sheltered  from  a 
careless  observer,  and  from  the  hot  sand  be 
yond.  It  was  a  small  valley,  but  as  she  looked 
longer  her  mental  vision  fashioned  there  a  cool 
spring,  and  about  that  spring  there  were  laugh 
ing  flowers  and  green,  shady  trees,  holding  their 
heads  gracefully  up  to  heaven  as  if,  arrayed  in 
beautiful  colors  and  reflected  sunbeams,  they 
offered  their  all  to  their  Maker,  and  were  pray 
ing  to  Him  for  further  benedictions.  This 
was  her  grateful  soul  returning  to  her  as  the 
ringers  of  memory's  hand  passed  rapidly  over 
the  keys  of  time  and  played  melodies  at  her 
heart's  dictation,  full  of  brightness  and  prom 
ise.  "Might  not  the  old  woman's  story  help  me 
to  all  this  happiness,"  she  thought,  as  she  sat 
there,  casting  her  eyes  upon  the  land  to  the 
south,  and  then  again  to  the  sleeping  boy  within 


122  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

to  whose  comfort  she  had  just  been  contribut 
ing. 

Presently  in  the  distance  she  saw  a  soldier 
coming  towards  the  cabin.  When  he  arrived 
within  a  hundred  yards  of  it  he  called  to  her. 
When  she  came  to  him  he  handed  her  a  mes 
sage,  stating  as  an  apology  his  orders  not  to  ap 
proach  nearer  the  infected  dwelling.  The  note 
read: 

"Miss  Wilson,  will  you  please  return  at  once 
to  the  barracks,  man  seriously  ill,  and  we  need 
your  help. 

"(Signed),  CAPT.  MARSHALL." 

A  few  instructions  to  the  old  Indian  woman, 
a  tug  at  her  horse's  saddle  girth,  and  Felicita 
rode  galloping  over  the  mesa  land,  back  to  the 
Fort  at  the  side  of  the  soldier,  who  had  a  story 
to  tell  her,  and  this  story  had  much  to  do  with 
her  own  life. 


La    Amiga.  123 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

LA  AMIGA.* 

"Friendship  is  a  plant  that  loves  the  sun, 
thrives  ill  under  clouds" 

ONCE,  late  that  autumn,  when  Louise  Gor- 
dan  had  returned  from  Santa  Cruz,  where  she 
had  been  spending  the  summer  months,  she 
visited  Mrs.  Wilson,  and  naturally  their  con 
versation  turned  upon  the  absent  one. 

"Please  do  not  think  me  very,  very  imperti 
nent,  Mrs.  Wilson,  but  cannot  I,  too,  know  the 
real  reason  why  Felicita  went  away  ?  We  were 
always  just  like  sisters  together,  but  she  never 
would  tell  me  what  was  on  her  heart.  She 
must  be  very  lonely.  I  know  she  always  wished 
to  do  something  for  those  poor  Indian  people, 
but  surely  there  was  another  reason  or  she 
would  never  have  left  us,  when  we  all  loved 
her  so  much.  Will  you  never  tell  me,  Mrs. 
Wilson?" 

A  soft  hand  smoothed  the  hair  of  the  girl's 
head,  and  a  kind  voice  answered : 

"I  hardly  know,  child,  I  hardly  know." 

*The   Friend. 


124  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

"And  you  love  her,  I  know  you  do,"  resumed 
Louise,  "and  you  would  not  have  let  her  go 
unless  you  thought  it  to  be  for  the  best.  Do 
you  know,  one  day,  just  before  she  went,  I  was 
over  here — you  know  the  day  I  came  over  for 
the  lilies  you  wanted  me  to  take  to  the  hospital 
— and  you  told  me  that  Felicita  was  upstairs.  I 
ran  up  just  as  I  used  to.  She  was  putting  away 
all  her  old  keepsakes,  and  there  were  tears 
in  her  eyes.  She  wouldn't  tell  me  what  the  mat 
ter  was.  She  said  people  cried  sometimes 
when  they  were  not  really  sad.  But  I  knew 
that  was  not  her  case.  I  didn't  say  anything 
more.  You  know  how  Felicita  was.  You 
wouldn't  dare  ask  her  anything  if  she  didn't 
want  to  be  confidential.  What  do  you  think  it 
was  that  made  her  unhappy,  Mrs.  Wilson  ?" 

"How  can  I  tell  you,  Louise,"  answered  the 
old  lady,  kindly. 

Louise  looked  up  into  the  face  above  her. 
The  smile  upon  it  seemed  almost  a  caress,  but 
she  thought  only  of  the  good  Samaritan  far 
away  among  strangers.  She  felt  that  she 
wanted  to  help  her  friend,  because  she  loved 
her.  She  had  known  Mrs.  Wilson  so  long 
that  she  had  learned  to  read  her  thoughts  at  a 
glance. 

Almost  each  day  of  the  last  few  weeks  pre 
vious  to  Felicita' s  departure,  Louise  had  been 
with  her  friend.  She  could  not  avoid  seeing 
the  change  that  had  overtaken  her.  Felicita's 


La    Amiga.  125 

kindness  towards  her  adopted  mother  had 
been  even  more  kind  than  ever,  but  the  ab 
sence  of  that  usual  cheery  joyfulness  that  was 
used  to  dwell  in  the  eyes  and  the  voice  of  Fe- 
licita  was  marked.  Louise  noticed,  too,  that 
the  Major's  face  had  become  sober  with  a  seri 
ousness  not  entirely  his  own.  And  now  as  she 
looked  up  into  the  countenance  of  Mrs.  Wilson 
she  seemed  to  divine  the  reason  of  it  all.  It  is 
a  way  woman  has.  She  seemed  to  know  why 
Felicita  had  gone.  The  ruddy  hue  came  to  her 
cheeks,  and  she  arose. 

"You  need  never  tell  me,  for  I  know,  Mrs. 
Wilson." 

Louise  seated  herself  quickly  on  the  arm  of 
the  rocker,  bent  her  face  down  and  let  it  rest 
a  moment  on  the  soft,  old  cheek. 

"Do  you  know  ?"  interrogated  Mrs.  Wilson. 

"Yes,  I  think  I  know,"  came  the  answer. 
"But  I  wish  she  had  not  wanted  to  go.  It  is 
so  lonely  with  her  gone,  and  Major  away  from 
home.  But  she  seemed  to  feel  that  it  was  her 
duty,  and  perhaps  it  is  well  that  she  should  do 
as  she  thought  best.  But  I  feel  as  if  she  ought 
to  have  stayed;  after  a  while  she  might  have 
had  a  home  of  her  own  here,  and  have  been 
happy.  Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you  why  she 
could  not  stay,  Mrs.  Wilson?  Why,  I  think 
she  could  not  stay?" 

"Why  are  you  so  mysterious,  Louise?  Yes, 
tell  me;  but  surely  I  know." 


A    Maid   of    Sonora. 

"Did  you  ever  think  of  Major  Joel  marrying? 
Did  you,  Mrs.  Wilson?" 

It  was  an  abrupt  question,  especially  surpris 
ing  as  it  came  from  the  girl  whom  she  had 
placed  in  so  many  air-castles  of  her  son's  pos 
session,  but  the  old  lady  answered  readily : 

"Of  course,  lassie,  mothers  always  think  of 
such  things  for  their  children.  But  why  should 
we  speak  of  that,  Louise?" 

"Because — because,  for  a  long  time  I  have 
been  wanting  to  tell  you  something.  And  that 
something  is  this :  the  Major  loves  Felicita 
with  his  whole  heart,  and  I  know  she  would 
give  her  life  for  him,  Mrs.  Wilson,  and  I  am 
sure  you  know  that  is  just  why  she  went  away." 

The  old  woman  stopped  her  knitting,  gazed 
motionless  into  the  face  of  Louise,  surprised  at 
what  seemed  to  her  boldness  on  the  part  of  the 
young  woman. 

"Child,  child,"  she  answered,  "you  have 
startled  me  very  much.  Joel  and  Mananka? 
No,  no !  That  cannot  be.  Come  into  the  house, 
Louise,  it  has  grown  chilly  out  here,"  and  she 
spoke  in  a  tone  that  demanded  silence  on  a  topic 
so  vexing  to  her. 

That  night  when  all  was  quiet  in  her  little 
room,  Louise  Gordan  wrote  the  following  let 
ter  to  Joel : 

"Major,  I  have  long  had  something  on  my 
heart  to  tell  you,  and  yet  for  the  sake  of  that 


La    Amiga.  127 

dear  little  mother,  whom  we  all  love  and  re 
spect,  I  have  refrained,  but  for  your  sake, 
Major,  I  must  say  it.  So  I  am  to  speak  to  you 
open-heartedly  and  frankly.  Why  should  we 
bicker  over  words?  Major,  I  have  long  wanted 
you  to  place  your  heart  where  it  would  be  hap 
piest.  I  know,  as  you  know,  where  only  that 
could  be.  The  Easter  tide  of  your  life  is  at 
hand.  The  beautiful  white  lily  that  stands  for 
the  resurrection  of  your  life  still  blooms  in  your 
heart  with  all  the  spiritual  sweetness  and  purity 
of  the  past  days.  Then  do  not  allow  it  ever  to 
fade.  For  the  friendship  you  bear  me,  even 
for  the  love  you  have  for  that  mother  who  so 
often  spoke  of  me  as  her  daughter,  much  more 
for  the  love  I  bear  her  whom  I  know  you  love, 
cultivate,  cherish  this  pure  lily  so  that  each  day 
in  your  life  may  be  made  happier  and  you  bet 
ter  by  its  fragrance  and  its  purity  and  beauty. 
You  must  be  worthy  of  her,  Major;  you  must 
be  hopeful.  You  could  never  give  anyone  you 
do  not  love  all  there  is  in  your  heart.  No, 
Major,  it  would  be  pitifully  droll  to  attempt  it. 
Be  kind  to  her  and  be  kind  to  the  little  mother 
for  my  sake.  I  earnestly  pray,  Joel,  that  you 
may  be  blissfully  happy  some  day  with  Felicita, 
in  a  house  of  which  you  are  the  pillar  and  the 
strength,  and  Felicita  the  blessing.  May  God 
keep  you  strong  and  brave. 

"As  ever,  LOUISE." 


128  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

EL  MENSAJE.* 

"Hope  never  spreads  her  golden  wings  but  on 
unfathomable  seas." 

As  they  rode  over  the  mesa  the  soldier,  in  an 
unconnected  manner,  related :  "There  is  a 
young  officer  at  the  barracks  just  up  from  the 
Pass.  He  was  trapped  there  with  two  others 
at  Nugents,  shot  through  the  thigh  by  some 
renegades,  or  by  the  Indians  from  down  there 
that  Lieutenant  Bullock  routed  after  the  raid  at 
Nogales  last  week.  He's  not  in  much  of  a  con 
dition  to  talk,  but  he  keeps  inquiring  after  you, 
and  so  the  captain  thought  he'd  better  send 
after  you  right  off.  He's  pretty  low,  poor 
man,  from  the  loss  of  blood.  He  was  brought 
in  by  Corporal  Beamer,  one  of  Bullock's  men  of 
the  7th,  and  by  a  Mexican  boy  that  came 
along  with  him  from  Tucson.  They  say  that 
the  major  was  sent  to  Nogales  from  Denver  to 
look  into  the  claims  of  the  Mexican  Custom 

*The  Message. 


El    Mensaje.  129 

House  keeper,  and  to  confer  with  the  authori 
ties  of  Tucson,  to  look  into  the  matter  of  Bul 
lock's  capturing  thirty  Indians  south  of  there 
lately.  Well,  they  say  he  was  aching  to  come 
to  the  Fort  here,  and  so  at  his  first  opportunity 
he  started  over,  leaving  Mescal  this  morning 
before  sun  up.  He  was  warned  not  to  come, 
as  the  Indians  were  not  friendly,  but  I  don't 
believe  it  was  either  a  Yaqui  or  Moqui  that 
shot  him.  I  believe  it  was  one  of  those  Greasers 
from  the  Santa  Teresa  country,  looking  for 
horses.  Whoever  they  were  they  put  a  pretty 
bad  hole  into  his  leg.  If  the  boys  had  had  a 
little  more  sense  they  would  not  have  let  him 
lose  so  much  blood.  He's  more  faint  and 
feverish  than  hurt."  And  so  they  chatted  as 
they  rode  over  the  plain,  sometimes  their  horses 
were  in  a  gallop,  sometimes  in  a  walk. 

With  her  usual  acuteness,  Felicita  soon  be 
gan  to  understand  the  whole  situation.  Not 
long  since  she  had  received  a  short  note  from 
the  Major,  stating  that  he  had  been  transferred 
to  the  Department  of  Colorado  to  act,  for  a 
time,  in  a  clerical,  rather  than  a  military  capac 
ity,  and  that  he  purposed  coming  to  the  Fort  at 
his  earliest  convenience.  Then,  too,  the  raid  at 
Nogales  had  been  much  discussed  at  the  Fort, 
so  that  she  was  conversant  with  every  phase  of 
it.  An  attack  had  been  made  on  the  Custom 
House  at  Nogales  on  both  the  Mexican  and 
American  sides  by  a  mixed  band  of  Yaqui  and 


130  A    Maid    of   Sonora. 

Moqui,  and  a  few  white  renegades  from  Santa 
Teresa.  They  failed  in  their  purpose  of  plun 
der,  but  succeeded  in  doing  considerable  dam 
age  to  the  surrounding  country,  besides  killing 
several  persons.  The  Yaquis  then  started  for 
Tucson,  and  Lieutenant  Bullock,  commanding 
Troop  E,  or  the  7th  U.  S.  Cavalry,  was  dis 
patched  against  them.  A  fight  took  place 
twenty  miles  south  of  the  town,  in  which  three 
of  the  Indians  were  killed  and  thirty  taken  pris 
oners.  The  report  at  Denver  of  this  raid  ef 
fected  a  dispatch  of  Major  Wilson  to  the  scene 
of  action  to  adjust  claims  arising  against  the 
Government  of  the  United  States.  Wilson 
was  also  sent  to  investigate  in  the  capture  of 
the  thirty  Indians  and  to  arrange  for  their  trans 
portation  to  some  available  reservation.  Upon 
his  arrival  at  Tucson  it  was  found  that  nothing 
further  could  be  done  until  more  complete  in 
structions  were  received  from  headquarters,  and 
the  Mexican  Government  had  authorized  some 
one  to  act  with  Major  Wilson.  Meantime  Joel, 
accepting  the  company  of  an  old  fellow-in-arms, 
whom  he  had  met  at  Tucson,  and  a  trusty, 
worthy  Mexican  boy,  determined  to  avail  him 
self  of  the  interim  by  visiting  Fort  Grant  and 
the  little  maiden,  who  for  so  many  years  had 
been  his  greatest  care  and  his  greatest  bless 
ing.  He  could  not  rest  until  the  road  could 
be  covered  that  separated  him  from  her. 
The  evening  before  his  departure  from  Tuc- 


El    Mensaje.  131 

son  to  the  Fort,  the  Major  had  received  a  letter 
written  him  by  Louise.  Some  indefinable  in 
fluence  caused  the  Major  to  start  with  joy  as  he 
completed  reading  the  note.  Coming  as  it  did 
on  that  memorable  eve,  it  seemed  to  be  a 
prophecy  to  him.  Would  this  sandy,  cactus- 
grown  desert  again  be  his  Eldorado  as  of  yore  ? 
Would  it  be  his  Ultima  Thule?  Did  his  gar 
den  lie  beyond  this  wind-blown  vast? 

Over  and  over  in  his  mind  he  revolved  the 
maybes  and  the  ifs  as  he  permitted  his  horse  to 
walk  leisurely  through  the  passes,  past  formida 
ble  hills,  steep  and  rocky  in  places,  in  places 
again  sloping  and  studded  with  little  scrubby, 
yellow  pine  and  mesquite  bush.  He  had  been 
riding  ahead  of  his  comrades,  alone  and  un 
suspecting,  when  suddenly  a  shot  rang  from 
behind  a  clump  of  bushes  from  a  higher  place 
in  the  canon  and  across  the  gulch ;  another  shot 
and  another,  and  before  the  Major  could  bring 
his  revolver  to  aim  he  was  struck  in  the  thigh 
by  a  rifle  ball.  Beamer  and  the  Mexican  boy 
came  up  at  once,  upon  the  approach  of  whom, 
the  offenders,  no  doubt  expecting  a  greater 
number  to  follow,  left  their  retreat  and  fled. 

The  best  possible  care  was  given  the  wounded 
man,  but  conditions  were  unfavorable,  and  the 
ride  was  trying  in  the  extreme.  Joel's  fortitude 
held  out  bravely  until  within  sight  of  the  Fort, 
when  his  strength  giving  way,  he  fell  into  the 
arms  of  his  two  companions,  and  had  to  be 


132  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

carried  into  the  chamber  of  his  old  college 
mate,,  the  commanding  officer.  There  it  was 
Felicita  found  him,  still  tossing  in  agonies  of 
pain  and  delirium,  crying  out  her  name  and  call 
ing  for  his  mother. 

That  moment  when  Felicita  crossed  the 
threshold  there  were  a  thousand  prayers  in  her 
heart,  all  pleading  and  calling  to  her  God  at 
once.  A  prayer  of  regret  at  ever  leaving  him, 
a  prayer  of  woman's  sympathy,  a  prayer  that 
thanked  God  for  this  golden  opportunity  to 
meet  Joel  and  to  speak  with  him  whom  she 
loved,  and  to  care  for  him  and  to  nurse  him 
back  to  health.  Then  came  a  prayer  asking 
God's  mercy,  and  reproaching  herself  for  feel 
ing  joyful  while  he  lay  sick  and  unconscious 
before  her.  And  there  was  another  orison 
that  went  up  to  heaven  with  all  the  hope  and 
fervor  that  can  come  from  a  sensitive  heart 
that  feels,  and  a  deep  soul  that  loves,  a  prayer 
that  was  said  in  the  sacred  sanctum  of  the  soul's 
confessional,  to  be  communicated  to  her  God 
alone. 


La    Tristeza.  133 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

LA  TRISTEZA.* 

"And  his  head  is  bowed  with  weight  of  years," 

TIME  passed.  Each  day  became  a  weary, 
vain  search.  Even  though  at  last  he  lost  all 
hope,  yet  this  seemed  all  that  was  left  of  life 
to  Don  Feliz  Mendez.  He  had  become  a  rest 
less  wanderer;  homeless,  wifeless,  childless,  he 
who  shortly  had  all  the  happiness  of  a  beauti 
ful,  joyous  house. 

He  tried  staying  at  his  hacienda  among  the 
hills,  the  home  around  which  every  heartstring 
was  woven,  but  each  wall  sent  out  to  him  a  si 
lent,  sorrowful  echo  of  old-time  gladness,  where 
once  every  room  resounded  with  the  merry 
voices  of  a  wife  singing,  and  a  babe's  prattle. 
In  time  the  shadows  deepened  beneath  his  eyes. 
He  could  endure  it  no  longer.  One  evening  he 
revisited  each  cherished  spot,  and  closed  the 
last  door  with  a  solemn  reverence.  He  had  dis- 

*  "The  Bereavement" 


134  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

posed  of  all  the  chattels.  He  would  forsake 
every  object  that  made  him  sad.  He  would  go 
out  into  the  world. 

Silently  he  went  to  the  stable,  mounted  his 
horse  and  rode  away  into  the  darkness.  On 
and  on  he  rode,  scarcely  knowing  whither,  un 
til  after  hours  of  riding  he  found  himself  de 
scending  the  steep  hill  in  front  of  Loco's  tav 
ern.  Not  a  light  shone.  All  was  dark. 
He  dismounted  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
Only  a  hollow  sound  of  emptiness  came 
to  him  from  within.  The  adobe  was 
deserted.  Another  ligament  connecting  him 
with  the  past  was  severed.  He  looked 
down  into  the  depths  of  the  canon,  and 
there  was  only  darkness  for  him.  The  trees, 
the  great,  rugged  live  oaks  about  him  sobbed 
and  quivered  in  seeming  sympathy.  No  hu 
man  sound  broke  the  stillness  of  that  loneliness, 
yet  away  through  the  shadow  came  the  mourn 
ful  note  of  the  turtle  dove,  which  echoed  and  re 
echoed  in  his  heart,  and  the  sadness  became  the 
more  unbearable  as  he  likened  that  cry  to  the 
plaint  of  his  Palladita  for  him  as  she  bore  the 
cruelty  of  her  captors.  The  Don  mounted 
his  horse  and  rode  slowly  out  of  the  canon. 

As  he  came  upon  the  mesa  again  from  the 
great  shadow  of  the  hills,  the  moon,  just 
arisen,  shone  down  in  a  calm,  soft,  radiant 
splendor.  The  eucalypti  trees  on  the  border  of 
a  rancho  away  to  the  westward  threw  their  tall, 


La    Tristeza.  135 

straight  forms  up  against  the  horizon  like  so 
many  sentinels  of  the  night.  The  air  was  clear 
and  cool,  and  sweet,  and  fanned  his  face  like 
the  airy  caress  of  invisible  fingers.  And  in  all 
this  gentle  vastness  the  world  seemed  peopled 
by  no  one  but  his  own  sorrowing  soul,  which 
spread  its  wings  further  and  further  into  the 
infinite  void, — the  void  of  no  hope. 

There  are  moments  in  a  man's  lifetime  when 
the  vastness  of  such  solitude  comes  like  the  per 
fumed  benediction  of  holy  incense.  It  carries 
with  it  a  longing,  a  mighty,  surging,  longing 
for  peace.  Every  subtle  link  of  human  sym 
pathy  seems  shattered  into  unredeemable  frag 
ments.  Even  God  seems  so  vague,  awe-inspir 
ing,  that  He  is  unapproachable.  There  is  then 
no  longing  for  death ;  that  is  too  weird,  untangi- 
ble  and  unsatisfactory ;  the  longing  is  for  peace. 
The  vastness  of  silence  alone  is  satisfying. 
The  throbbing  of  a  hundred  hearts  seem 
crowded  in  one  frail  breast,  and  the  surging  of 
myriads  of  thoughts  rush  through  a  weary 
brain. 

Just  such  a  soul- felt  longing  filled  Don  Men- 
dez's  heart  as  on  and  on  he  rode  in  that  sil 
very  moonlight  night,  when  in  this  hopelessness 
the  words  of  his  brother,  the  priest,  came  to 
him :  "There  is  a  God  in  heaven  who  sees  fur 
ther  into  the  future  than  unhappy  man." 

The  adventures  of  the  bereaved  Don  cannot 
be  written  on  a  page.  Suffice  then  to  follow 


136  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

the  winding  path  of  the  restless  wanderer.  Af 
ter  returning  once  more  to  his  old  homestead 
at  Hermocillo,  as  above  related,  he  betook  him 
self  to  the  city  of  Chihuahua,  entered  into  the 
political  agitation  of  the  times,  and  led  the 
spirit  of  the  Mexican  Liberals.  At  various 
times  he  was  sent  by  his  constituents  to  the  Na 
tional  Congress  in  the  City  of  Mexico,  had 
supported  Lerdo  de  Tajada,  and  had  become 
the  staunch  friend  of  Porfirio  Diaz,  afterwards 
to  play  so  eminent  a  part  in  the  historical  drama 
of  the  Republic.  He  had  been  several  times  en 
trusted  with  troops  by  the  President.  Once  he 
had  led  them  against  the  rebels  in  Chihuahua 
and  Sonora,  again  he  led  a  considerable  force 
against  the  Yaqui  Indians  in  the  north.  In 
all  this  time  he  never  married.  Then  after  an 
active  life  of  many  years  given  up,  like  the 
true  patriot  that  he  was,  to  the  reorganization 
and  unification  of  his  country,  he  once  more  re 
turned  to  the  west,  to  Hermocillo,  now  bowed 
with  age  and  care,  to  pass  the  declining  years 
of  his  life  in  peace  and  comfort  amid  familiar 
scenes  and  kindly,  friendly  faces. 

But  rest  was  not  for  him.  The  too  grate 
ful  people  of  Hermocillo,  ever  mindful  of  his 
youth  and  sacrifices,  conscious  of  his  strong, 
Liberal  principles,  called  him  to  be  their  al 
calde,  their  mayor ;  they  appealed,  when  he  ob 
jected  on  the  ground  that  he  was  too  old  to 
serve  the  public,  to  his  patriotism,  and  pointed 


La    Tristeza.  137 

out  to  him  the  urgent  needs  of  Hermosillo.  He 
accepted.  Years  followed. 

Old  and  bowed  and  gray,  the  sturdy  Mexican 
sat  one  day  at  his  broad  desk,  his  brown, 
wrinkled  face  supported  by  a  hand  no  less 
marked  with  age  over  which  fell  a  few  locks  of 
white  hair,  slightly  curled.  Upon  his  shoul 
ders,  though  the  day  was  not  cold,  carelessly 
hung  a  great  green  cloak,  such  as  the  Mexican 
soldier  wears  when  the  day  is  chilly.  With 
eyes  half  closed,  and  head  bent,  he  had  been 
perusing  a  document  of  State,  carefully  penned 
and  gay  with  large,  yellow  seals  and  bits  of 
ribbon,  such  as  one  constantly  sees  in  Mexican 
courts.  Little  by  little  his  eyes  closed  as  he 
attempted  to  read,  and  little  by  little  his  head 
bent  further  towards  his  breast,  until,  semi 
conscious  that  sleep  was  overtaking  him,  he 
would  straighten  in  his  chair,  open  wide  his 
eyes,  only  to  fall  back  in  the  same  stupor,  when 
reading  made  him  drowsy.  In  this  drowsiness 
the  paper  would  vanish  from  him  entirely, 
leaving  on  the  canvas  of  his  dream-mind  the 
picture  of  the  prosperous  hacienda,  of  Palla- 
dita,  and  of  a  sweet  little  girl-child  that  he 
loved  beyond  conception. 

Then  came  a  rap  at  the  door,  that  vanished 
his  beautiful  picture  and  quite  startled  him. 

"Truly,"  thought  Feliz,  "truly,  I  am  get 
ting  old — old  and  feeble.  Enter!  enter!"  he 
replied,  in  a  hollow  voice,  once  so  resonant,  and 


138  A    Maid   of    Sonora. 

a  youth  approached  him  bearing  a  packet  of 
mail. 

"Well,  indeed.  It  is  a  letter  from  my 
brother  at  Magdelena,  the  padre,"  grumbled 
the  old  man,  as  he  looked  over  his  mail  and 
groped  among  papers,  scattered  on  his  desk, 
for  a  pair  of  glasses.  "He  has  not  written  me 
these  six  months;  not  since  I  sent  him  money 
for  that  new  chalice.  He  and  his  Indians  and 
their  pilgrimages!  They  will  only  kill  him 
and  rob  him.  If  like  me,  he  had  had  a  wife 

and  a  child "  By  this  time  he  had  found 

his  large,  gold-rimmed  spectacles,  and  perus 
ing  the  first  few  lines  of  the  opened  letter,  he 
sank  back  in  his  chair  almost  breathless. 

"Can  this  be  possible?"  mumbled  the  old  vet 
eran,  "or  am  I  as  Ysabella  has  so  often  chidden 
me,  indeed,  in  my  dotage,"  and  to  convince 
himself  he  read  the  letter  several  times  over. 

There  was  little  more  done  that  day  in  the 
office  of  the  alcalde.  Such  business  as  was  press 
ing  was  at  once  dispatched.  The  key  of  the 
great,  old-fashioned  safe  was  turned  in  its 
lock  and  delivered  over  to  his  secretary,  with 
a  few  instructions  to  act.  during  his  absence. 

Before  the  next  morning  had  dawned  Don 
Feliz  Mendez  had  become  young  again.  His 
easy-going  housekeeper  could  scarcely  believe 
her  eyes  as  she  saw  the  otherwise  dignified  vet 
eran  hurrying  about  the  house  in  boyish  frenzy, 
singing  as  a  youthful  peon  sings  while  he  herds 


La    Tristcza.  139 

his  flocks,  bowing  and  smiling  at  every  turn. 

"Valgame  Deos!"  replied  the  old  domestic, 
"Don  Feliz  has  regained  years  of  his  life  in  one 
night !  What  a  miracle !  But  the  Don  must  not 
forget  his  head.  There  will  be  time  until  to 
morrow.  And  Pepe,  too,  will  need  time  to 
prepare  to  go  with  him,"  and  she  busied  her 
self  with  her  work. 

"Pepe?  Pepe?"  replied  the  old  man,  straight 
ening  up  at  full  length,  somewhat  astonished 
at  the  remark  of  the  old  woman  as  she  ventured 
a  word  in  behalf  of  her  procrastinating  hus 
band.  "Let  Pepe  not  detain  me  one  moment. 
Pronto!  Ysabella!  Quick!"  and  soon  the  anx 
ious  father,  accompanied  by  the  faithful  Pepe, 
was  on  his  way  to  Nogales. 


140  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

EL   RENDIR.* 

"Everywhere  the  human  soul  stands  between 
a  hemisphere  of  light  and  another  of  darkness." 

CLAD  in  the  plain  blue  and  white  of  her  nurse 
garb,  Felicita  seemed  all  too  slight  and  frail 
for  the  work  she  had  undertaken;  an  appear 
ance  intensified  by  a  delicacy  of  feature  and  a 
sweet  simplicity  of  nature  all  her  own  among 
the  rough  surroundings  of  a  military  garrison. 

She  had  not  been  long  in  making  herself 
ready  for  her  visit  to  the  sick. 

"You  have  been  a  long  while,  Mananka," 
were  the  first  words  that  greeted  her  in  a  feeble, 
hollow  voice,  yet  cheerful  and  hopeful,  as  Joel 
came  to  perfect  consciousness. 

"Joel !"  It  was  the  only  word  she  could  utter 
as  she  grasped  the  outstretched  hand  and 
smoothed  the  heavy  locks  on  his  high  forehead. 

Joel  feebly  smiled  at  the  fickleness  of  fortune 
in  placing  so  much  enthusiasm  in  such  a  fever- 

*  The  Surrender. 


El    Rendir.  141 

worn  body  as  his  as  he  sank  upon  his  heap  of 
pillows,  conscious  of  his  weakness. 

"Put  the  chair  close  up,  Mananka.  I'm  not 
strong  enough  yet  to  speak  loud." 

"You  must  not  speak  at  all  now,"  she  re 
plied,  in  a  professional  way ;  "when  you  are  well 
again,  Joel,  you  can  tell  me  all,  all  that  you 
have  to  tell." 

This  silenced  him  for  a  while,  and  he  lay 
gazing  at  her  without  a  word.-  Then  finally, 
out  of  exhaustion,  he  fell  into  a  long,  deep  sleep. 
When  he  again  awoke  Felicita  was  watching 
over  him  at  the  head  of  the  bed. 

"Mananka,"  he  half  whispered,  "have  you 
heard  from  mother?" 

"Yes,  Joel,"  replied  the  little  nurse;  "she 
thinks  she  will  be  herself  again  in  a  few  weeks. 
She  will  get  better  quickly,  and  then  we  will 
have  her  with  us  here, — until  you  are  entirely 
well,  at  least." 

"And  how  about  you,  Mananka  ?"  he  queried, 
looking  up  at  her  steadfastly. 

"Well,  Joel,  I  have  been  very  happy  since  I 
am  doing  what  God  meant  for  me  to  do."  And 
then,  after  a  pause,  "You  know  that  I  have 
asked  God  each  night  that  he  might  be  kind  to 
you." 

"Mananka,"  he  replied  thoughtfully,  "I,  I  am 
not  worth  your  sacrifice."  He  little  realized 
that  within  his  own  breast  there  was  a  soul 
as  true  as  her  own.  "I  am  sorry,  Mananka, 


142  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

that  my  rashness  has  broken  into  your  work 
and  your  happiness." 

All  unconsciously  he  had  touched  the  key 
note  to  her  emotion. 

"Oh,  Joel,  do  not  say  that  now.  Within  a 
few  days  I  shall  be  at  my  work  again,  and  shall 
be  the  same  harum-scarum  you  used  to  know." 

"Mananka,"  he  asked,  "how  long  has  it  been 
since  you  went  away?" 

"Only  a  few  months,"  she  laughed.  "Only 
a  few  months,  Joel !" 

"Oh,  it  seems  almost  years  since  I  bade  you 
good-bye  at  the  train ;  yet  I  knew  it  could  not  be 
for  always.  A  person's  heart  does  not  measure 
time  by  the  clock,  does  it,  child?" 

"No,  Joel;  but  I  am  deceiving  the  doctor. 
You  must  rest  a  while  now,"  she  said,  softly, 
and  a  faint  alarm,  causing  her  to  suspect  a  re 
turn  of  fever,  and  he  smiled  feebly,  as  he  real 
ized  her  fear. 

"No,  no,  Mananka,  the  doctor  cannot  cure 
this  fever.  No,  no,  don't  go.  I  have  some 
thing  more  to  tell  you." 

But  she  enforced  the  rules  of  her  profession 
and  left  him  nothing  more  to  talk  to  than  the 
bare  walls. 

The  next  morning  as  she  entered  the  room 
she  found  him  so  far  convalescent  that  he  was 
humming  a  tune,  quite  familiar  to  her,  to  him 
self. 

He  caught  her  hand  as  she  attempted  to 


El    Rendir.  143 

smooth  his  pillow,  and  he  bade  her  be  seated 
near  him. 

"Mananka,"  he  began,  "do  you  remember 
that  evening,  long  ago,  when  you  stood  in  the 
flickering  fire-light  telling  me  you  were  going 
out  of  my  life?  No,  you  need  not  answer,  dear." 
Oh,  what  need  was  there  for  her  to  answer, 
when  he  had  those  speaking  eyes  before  him! 
"I  can  see  you  yet,"  he  continued,  musingly, 
"the  warm  light  rippling  over  those  features 
so  dear  to  me,  in  whose  calm,  sweet  loveliness 
was  pictured  so  much  love  and  gratitude.  No, 
don't  try  to  speak  or  go  away.  I  shall  hold 
you  this  time,"  he  said,  teasingly.  "This  is 
only  Joel,"  and  he  added,  "I  knew  then  that 
you  were  more  to  me  than  all  the  world  besides, 
but  now,  now  I  know  how  much  more  than 
that  you  are,  and,  please  God,  you  will  never 
go  out  of  my  life  again,  Mananka.  You  seemed 
to  have  wanted  to  go.  Had  I  known  then  what 
I  do  now  I  would  have  held  this  little  hand  so 
closely  that  it  never  could  have  slipped  away. 
No,  Mananka,  it  was  no  one's  fault.  I  love 
you  both  the  more  for  what  you  have  suffered 
for  my  sake.  Dear  old  mother!"  he  mused; 
"God  has  made  no  holier  thing  than  a  woman's 
love.  There  came  a  time  when  I  could  scarcely 
endure  your  absence,  Mananka.  'Home  ?'•  Oh, 
child,  I  had  no  home.  The  Post  called  me,  and 
I  was  only  too  willing  to  go.  There  were  long, 
weary  days  after  that,  but  there  was  a  day  that 


144  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

brought  me  happiness.  That  was  the  day  I 
was  sent  down  here.  I  believe  I  would  have 
come  anyway,  Mananka,  but  you  know  my 
pride.  It  has  so  often  stood  in  the  way.  And 
after  I  got  here  came  that  letter  from  Louise. 
That  made  things  stand  so  differently  between 
mother  and  me,  Mananka.  Now  I  want  you  to 
read  that  letter,  Mananka.  It's  under  my  pil 
low  here.  Can  you  find  it  ?" 

Joel's  face  lit  up  with  hope  as  he  watched 
her  open  and  read  it. 

Mananka  read  it  over  and  over,  from  the 
first  word  to  the  last,  then  folded  it  up  ten 
derly,  as  if  it  had  contained  the  very  soul  of 
life,  and  mechanically  placed  it  under  the  pil 
low  again.  Then  all  the  why  and  the  whence 
and  the  whither  of  life  seemed  to  unfold  itself 
to  her.  Life  was  no  more  like  the  great  ex 
panse  she  had  a  few  months  gazed  upon 
through  the  open  window.  It  was  now  for 
some  reason,  beginning  to  be  a  definite  some 
thing;  and  then  in  the  midst  of  all  this  happi 
ness  came  the  blighting  thought  of  her  humble 
Indian  birth,  and  that  thought  cast  a  shadow 
over  the  features  which  a  moment  before 
were  so  bright  with  happiness. 

Joel  observed  the  change,  and  hoped  to  avert 
its  effect. 

"Mananka?"  he  remarked,  questioningly, 
but  a  rap  at  the  door  called  her  from  his  bed 
side. 


La   Novia.  243 


LA  NOVIA.* 

"Behold  while  she  before  the  altar  stands, 
Hearing  the  holy  priest  that  to  her  speaks, 
'And  blesseth  her  with  his  two  happy  hands. 
How  the  red  roses  Hush  up  in  her  cheeks, 
]And  the  pure  snow,  with  goodly  vermill  stayne 
Like  crimson  dyde  in  grayne" 

AND  it  all  came  about  in  this  way.  On  the 
day  that  Major  Wilson  left  Nogales  for  Fort 
Grant,  Padre  Benito  Mendez,  a  mission  priest 
of  the  Mission  of  Magdelena,  in  Sonora,  whose 
parishioners  had  suffered  much  wrong  at  the 
hands  of  these  renegades  and  Indians  from 
across  the  border  of  Arizona,  hastened  to  No- 
gales  to  file  his  complaint  with  the  American 
authorities.  On  arriving  there  he  was  in 
formed  of  the  commission  of  Major  Wilson, 
and  being  hard  pressed  for  time,  and  greatly 
desirous  of  having  the  matter  brought  before 
the  proper  tribunal,  immediately  repaired  with 

*The  Bride, 


146  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

several  of  his  servants  to  the  Post.  Upon  his 
arrival  at  the  garrison  he  met  with  a  surprise, 
for  being  told  there  of  the  misfortune  that  had 
befallen  the  young  major,  he  was  denied  ac 
cess  to  the  sick  room.  Unwilling  to  be  foiled 
in  his  purpose,  the  kindly  old  priest  asked  to 
speak  to  the  sick  man's  nurse,  hoping  thereby 
to  effect  an  early  interview  with  the  major. 
When  the  lithe  form  of  the  garrison  nurse 
made  her  appearance,  neatly  clad  in  its  simple 
uniform,  the  old  padre  could  scarcely  believe 
his  eyes  as  he  saw  standing  before  him  on  the 
broad  portico  of  the  shackelty  old  building,  so 
beautifully  silhouetted  in  the  twilight  sun  of 
an  Arizona  summer,  the  very  image  of  his  sis 
ter-in-law,  Palladita. 

"Felicita  mia,"  he  half  whispered,  half  cried, 
in  his  amazement,  as  the  young  woman  bowed 
in  token  of  respect  and  reverence. 

"Pardon  me,  Senorita,"  he  continued,  in  his 
quiet,  gentle  manner,  "for  a  moment  I  fancied 
I  saw  before  me,  grown  to  womanhood,  my 
beloved  niece." 

And  then,  told  in  the  sweet,  welcome  accents 
of  her  mother  tongue,  a  knowledge  of  which 
she  had  carefully  preserved  in  her  studies,  Fe 
licita  heard  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  the 
strange  story  of  her  birth  and  her  babyhood. 
As  the  messenger  of  her  fate  concluded,  she 
arrested  any  change  from  the  subject  by  putting 
forth  a  small,  suntanned  hand  that  she  had  but 


La    Novia.  147 

a  moment  before  taken  from  the  fevered  grasp 
of  her  guardian  and  her  beloved. 

"And,  Padre,"  she  said,  sobbingly,  "perhaps 
I  am  this  Felicita — this  little  orphan.  And  if 
I  am  indeed  this  child,  will  you  tell  me  where 
is  my  father,  that  I  again  may  be  truly  'Fe 
licita/  the  little  happy  one?  Perhaps,  Padre, 
he  who  lies  within,  wounded  and  sick,  and  per 
haps " 

At  first  a  delicate  blush  stole  over  her  soft, 
brown  cheeks;  then  her  eyes,  responding  to  a 
thousand  emotions,  filled  with  tears,  until,  all 
unstrung,  her  resisting  nature  gave  way  to 
sobs.  Gently  the  aged  priest  laid  his  hands 
upon  her  head,  and  turning  her  gaze  into  his 
as  he  did  so,  he  told  her  in  his  fatherly  way : 

"Felicita,  you  are  none  other.  None  but  my 
Palladita  ever  had  those  eyes." 

There  was  something  in  the  countenance  of 
the  kindly  old  minister  that  gave  her  confidence ; 
there  was  something  in  that  assurance  that 
thrilled  her  with  the  feeling  that  God  had  com 
missioned  him  for  the  one  purpose  to  complete 
her  happiness.  Resisting  no  longer,  the  brave 
little  nurse  rested  her  head  upon  the  grizzly 
old  priest's  broad  chest  and  wept;  wept  she 
knew  not  what  for,  lest  it  was  because  of  the 
consummation  of  life's  hopes.  That  reader 
alone  can  tell  who  at  some  time  in  his  life  has 
had  heaven  burst  upon  him  unexpectedly,  at 
one  bound,  banishing  with  its  warm,  cheering 


148  A    Maid   of   Sonora. 

sunlight,  and  all  its  splendor  and  beauty  tfie 
darkness  of  a  mysterious  past. 

Early  that  next  morning  the  story  was  whis 
pered  from  man  to  man.  The  old  Indian 
woman  who  had  told  her  queer  tale  to  Felicita 
was  summoned,  and  she  was  made  to  repeat 
over  and  over  all  she  knew  of  the  story.  Then 
when  the  news  was  brought  to  Beamer's  ears 
he  was  ready,  with  as  much  additional  evidence 
as  was  necessary,  to  prove  the  fact. 

Not  many  days  thereafter  a  happy  message 
sped  from  the  grey  old  mission  of  Nogales  to 
the  far  western  city  of  Hermocillo.  It  brought 
to  Don  Feliz  Mendez  the  happy  tidings  of  a 
daughter  found.  Sent  from  one  brother  to  an 
other,  from  priest  to  alcalde,  from  daughter  to 
father,  it  read  as  follows: 

"Mv  BELOVED  BROTHER  : — As  at  the  words 
of  the  Angel  of  God  the  cruel  chains  fell  from 
the  feet  of  St.  Peter,  and  he  was  immediately 
restored  to  his  liberty,  so  by  our  constant 
prayers  and  sacrifices  your  long-lost  and  loving 
daughter,  my  niece,  your  own  Felicita,  has  been 
restored  to  us.  Brother,  rejoice  with  me. 
Much  joyed  at  hearing  these  happy  tidings,  ad 
mit  yourself  in  prayer  to  the  embrace  of  the 
Living  God,  and  then  prepare  to  come  to  meet 
us.  There  is  more  in  store  for  you  when  you 
arrive.  So  commending  you,  dear  brother,  to 
the  protection  of  the  Saints,  and  to  the  mercy 


La    Novia.  '149 

of  God,  and  to  the  patronage  of  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  I  am  ever,  believe  me,  your  affectionate 
brother,  BENITO." 

This  was  accompanied  by  a  note  saying : 

"Mv  BELOVED  FATHER  : — God  in  his  benev 
olence  has  granted  that  we  shall  meet  again 
after  so  many  years  of  hopelessness.  From 
hour  to  hour  I  await  anxiously  your  arrival  that 
I  may  receive  your  paternal  blessing,  for  my 
self  and  for  him  whom  I  have  ever  loved. 
Anxiously  and  lovingly, 

"Your  own  FELICITA." 

When  Mananka  returned  to  Joel  she  told 
him  of  all  her  happiness,  of  the  story  of  the  old 
Indian  woman,  of  the  priest,  and  of  her  father. 
There  was  no  need  now  for  an  answer  to  his 
query.  A  moment  later  found  her  kneeling  in 
silent  prayer  at  his  bedside,  her  clasped  hands 
resting  on  his  heaving  chest,  and  their  prayers 
were  mingled  in  a  solemn  thanksgiving  to 
their  God. 

The  physician  was  no  longer  required  to 
visit  the  wounded  soldier. 

Some  few  days  after  the  bells  of  St.  Xavier's, 
the  Jesuit  Mission  of  Tucson,  sent  forth  glad 
tidings  as  the  benediction  was  said  over  the 
heads  of  the  bride  and  bridegroom  by  Padre 
Benito.  A  kindly  mother  wept  tears  of  joy 


150  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

as  she  beheld  before  her,  united  for  life,  trie 
two  of  all  the  world  that  she  loved  best. 

"Felicita,"  offered  the  alcalde,  "thou  hast 
made  me  young  again.  It  is  to  me  as  though 
I  have  found  my  Palladita,  and  as  if  this  is  our 
wedding  day.  May  God  ever  bless  thee  and 
thine." 


'A  moment  later  hands  unseen 
Were  hanging  the  night  around  them  fast, 
But  she  knczv  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life;  they  were  mixed  at  last 
In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen/' 


La    Hacienda.  151 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

LA   HACIENDA.* 

"Home — the  nursery  of  the  infinite." 

PANORAMAED  by  high  mountains  that  are 
covered  with  scrub  pines  and  made  purple  by 
the  evening  sun  of  Arizona,  the  great  rancho  of 
Major  Joel  Wilson  reminds  you  of  a  Roman 
villa,  a  Southern  plantation,  or  an  English  es 
tate,  save  that  in  dominion  it  exceeds  them  all. 
As  you  drive  through  the  still  atmosphere  the 
serenity  of  which  is  broken  by  the  bleating  of 
sheep  or  the  shrill  notes  of  a  mocking  bird, 
you  will  become  conscious  of  the  setting  sun, 
for  a  soft  breeze,  no  more  fearful  of  the  fervent 
heat,  dares  to  wave  the  top  of  some  lone  bush 
near  by.  Here  and  there  are  bees  that  drink 
their  last,  and  as  though  angered  at  being  be 
lated,  buzz  and  fly  homeward.  The  shades  of 
the  tall  bushes  are  beginning  to  steal  over  the 
narrow,  dusty  roads,  and  the  barren  mountains 
rapidly,  yet  quietly,  clothe  the  east  in  darkness. 

*  The  Plantation. 


152  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

Shadows  stretch  like  great  long  projecting 
arms,  as  though  nightly  bidden  by  the  God  of 
nature  to  enfold  within  their  bosom  all  the  little 
valley,  with  its  many  happy  souls,  as  it  nestles 
clown  closely  and  more  close  in  the  lap  of  the 
brown,  barren  hills. 

On  your  way  to  the  "Casa  Alegre,"  the 
''Home  of  Joy,"  of  the  Wilsons,  you  will  drive 
through  large  grain  fields,  golden  in  their 
harvests,  through  lanes  of  lime  trees,  and  by 
orchards  of  orange  and  lemon,  stately  and  ver 
dant  in  their  pride,  vast  vineyards  where  the 
ripe  grapes  hang  in  clusters  sweet  and  juicy. 
Perhaps  on  your  way  you  will  encounter  old 
Felipe,  said  to  be  the  oldest  Indian  in  Arizona. 
When  you  pass  him  he  will  touch  his  hand  to 
his  tall  sombrero  in  the  way  of  a  salute.  To 
remove  it  were  impossible,  as  it  is  fastened 
with  a  heavy  cord  under  his  wrinkled  chin. 
Then  you  will  pass  a  long  row  of  adobe  huts, 
where  dwell  the  Indians,  the  special  charge  of 
the  Dona  Felicita,  as  Mrs.  Joel  Wilson  is  called 
among  the  people.  You  will  notice  their  pros 
perity,  and  with  what  peaceable  contentment 
they  are  preparing  for  the  approaching  night. 
As  you  pass  these  dwellings  little  Indian  chil 
dren,  neatly  dressed,  will  address  you  in  the 
Mexican  tongue  with  a  "Buenos  Tardes, 
Sefior."  They  are  the  children  of  the  Govern 
ment  Indian  school,  established  at  the  rancho 
by  the  influence  of  the  Major.  As  you  ap- 


La    Hacienda.  153 

proach  the  House  you  will  observe,  sitting  on 
the  wide  porticoes  in  evening  twilight,  com 
fortably  resting  in  a  great  arm  chair,  an  old 
lady,  whose  kindly  eyes  and  hospitable  Southern 
manners  seem  to  bid  you  enter,  even  though  you 
have  not  yet  stated  your  mission.  Once  intro 
duced,  you  are  a  welcome  visitor.  An  Indian 
servant  attends  to  your  horses,  an  Indian  maid 
will  show  you  to  your  quarters.  When  the 
mistress  enters  you  will  be  heartily  greeted,  and 
if  you  are  conversant  in  Spanish  you  will  be 
introduced  to  a  proud  old  Don,  just  up  from 
Hermocillo  on  a  visit.  He  will  address  you  in 
the  most  honorific  terms,  extending  to  you 
every  courtesy  and  favor.  But  your  interesting 
chat  to-day  with  Don  Feliz  Mendez  must  needs 
be  interrupted,  for  Padre  Benito  has  just  ar 
rived  from  Magdalena,  and  Padre  Benito  al 
ways  takes  precedence.  In  the  geniality  and  the 
good  nature  of  the  old  priest  you  are  scarcely 
conscious  of  that  restraint  so  often  felt  in  the 
ppesence  of  the  clergy.  You  have  not  yet  met 
the  Major.  He  has  been  away  to  attend  a  sit 
ting  of  the  Territorial  Legislature,  but  is  ex 
pected  back  any  moment.  You  have  indeed  not 
had  long  to  wait,  for  at  this  instant  a  maid  has 
announced  his  arrival.  A  thousand  times  you 
are  made  welcome  to  the  "Casa  Alegre."  Joel 
Wilson  has  not  forgotten  you.  He  is  the  last 
in  the  world  to  forget  an  old  friend,  much  less 
an  old  college  mate.  But  you  cannot  yet  claim 


154  A    Maid    of    Sonora. 

his  undivided  attention.  That  attention  is  al 
most  entirely  directed  to  the  dear  little  wife  in 
his  arms,  in  whose  eyes  shines  the  glory  of  a 
blissful  contentment,  happiness  and  pride.  And 
well  may  she  be  proud,  for  the  Major's  endeav 
ors  to  gain  statehood  for  Arizona  have  been 
recognized,  and  his  grateful  constituents  have 
but  now  elected  him  as  delegate  to  the 
National  Congress.  There  is  another  to  whom 
preference  is  shown.  It  is  the  kind  old  mother, 
who,  with  moist  eye  and  smile  on  her  lips, 
stands  before  him  supported  on  a  crutch.  You 
would  be  hard-hearted  indeed  to  restrain  a  tear 
as  he  raises  that  snowy  white  head  towards  his 
own  and  impresses  a  kiss  on  that  wrinkled 
brow,  where  dwell  two  eyes  whose  look  speaks 
of  love  for  her  son  that  death  alone  can  quench. 
Nay,  not  even  death,  for  in  the  Other  World, 
too,  he  will  receive  those  kind  caresses  by  vir 
tue  of  the  Fifth  Commandment  that  he  has  so 
carefully  obeyed. 

When  the  morning  again  awakens  you  may 
go  with  your  hostess  and  the  good  old  padre 
among  their  charges  in  the  little  Indian  village 
close  by,  there  to  administer  with  them  to 
those  that  need  help,  and  to  comfort  those  that 
need  comfort.  You  will,  indeed,  be  moved 
by  the  love  and  affection  these  poor  denizens  of 
the  desert  show  the  Dona  and  their  confessor. 
And  here  among  them,  as  their  "chiefo,"  their 
leader,  stands  Pepe,  the  Indian  playfellow  of 


La    Hacienda.  155 

the  child  Mananka,  grown  brave  and  strong, 
and  beloved  by  his  people. 

Little  children  lovingly  cling  to  the  skirts  of 
the  sefiora. 

Old  men  and  old  women  reverently  nod  their 
heads,  hopeful  of  the  priest's  blessings.  Then 
you  may  turn  and  ask  yourself :  "Where  among 
these  is  the  spirit  of  Natchez,  of  Geronimo,  of 
Mescalero  ?  Certainly  here  it  has  not  been  over 
come  by  the  sword  and  bayonet."  The  faces 
of  these  children  of  nature  call  to  your  mind 
the  hand  and  the  heart  that  has  made  them 
happy.  In  one  accord  they  seem  to  tell  you, 
"we  worship  with  you  one  God,  the  great  God, 
Love." 

At  your  departure  you  will  remember  the 
words  of  the  kind  old  padre :  "There  is  a  God 
in  heaven  who  sees  further  into  the  future  than 
unhappy  man."  And  His  name  will  be  the  last 
word  on  the  tongue  of  Felicita,  the  Little 
Happy  One,  as  she  bids  you  a  fond  "Adios."* 

*God  keep  you. 


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DATE  DUE 


PRINTED  IN  U.S.A. 


3  1970  00699  3320 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


A  A      000254823    8 


